


'Til Morning Comes

by infinite_mirrors



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Activism bordering on vigilantism, Alternate Universe - Vampire, An actual plot!!, Anal Sex, And did I mention VAMPIRES, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blow Jobs, Illegal Activities, M/M, Prostitution, Rimming, You Decide, but also porn, does that count as blood play??, that's right- this is a vampire au AND a prostitute au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 00:54:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7955806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinite_mirrors/pseuds/infinite_mirrors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Les Amis de l'ABC is one of the most influential human rights activist groups in Europe; in a city with a corrupt vampire government, they are seen as the ultimate threat. Combeferre would do anything for the cause, but when Courfeyrac enters his life, a collar around his neck and a suggestive smirk on his face, his will is put to the test.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Saut Dans Le Vide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's September, you know what that means! Halloween is right around the corner!! So, vampires. I fucking love vampires, you guys. 
> 
> The title of this fic is from Alt-J's "Tessellate," because song lyrics are always my go-to naming technique haha. The chapter title is from Alt-J's "Nara." I'm going to try to stick to Alt-J lyrics for titles, because themes are fun. "Saut dans le vide" = leap into the void.

The map of Paris, huge and peppered with highlighted streets and seemingly innocuous buildings circled in red and blue (a few of the circles had lines slashed through them, but they tried not to linger on those), lay spread out on the table, which had been wiped down for good measure. No good getting beer stains on The Map. They crowded around the table, peering down at where Gavroche was pointing with a calloused, skinny finger. Right bank, straddling the ninth and eighteenth districts.

“Pigalle,” Grantaire mused, and punctuated it with a bark of laughter. “Of course it’s in fucking Pigalle.”

Enjolras’s fingers drummed a quick, impatient rhythm on the table, but otherwise he paid Grantaire no mind, brow furrowed as his eyes flitted over the map. Grantaire cast a mildly disappointed look into his beer bottle.

“Go on, Gavroche,” Feuilly said from Enjolras’s left.

“The cops are bustin’ it tonight,” Gavroche said, tucking his hands in his pockets. Where exactly the teenager got his intel had been a hot topic of debate among them in the beginning, until they realized that somewhere between housing refugee orphaned half-breeds and networking with literal gang members, it was probably best they didn’t know. “Around three-thirty, or so I heard.”

“And they just got wind of it recently?” Feuilly asked, frowning. “That’s a short amount of time to set up a sting.”

“It’s their third in the area in the past month,” Combeferre said. “I’m sure they’re familiar with the procedure.”

“Yeah, and their teeth are probably itching for _collateral_ ,” Grantaire sneered, and the group collectively grimaced. Job loss and time in prison were not the only results of the police shutting down a human brothel. They had all witnessed the things that never made the papers, the ugly, bloody messes swept under the rug along with the names of those unfortunate enough to get caught in the maelstrom. Despite Combeferre and Jehan’s diligent book-keeping, none of them knew the exact number of people who had died on Joly’s operating table, the blood loss too great for any of them to stand a chance. It was difficult to keep track. Joly still got that haunted look on his face, every time.

“Not if we get there first,” Combeferre said. It sounded like a promise.

“It doesn’t exactly give _us_ much time, either,” Joly remarked. “How many are there?”

“At least a dozen prostitutes, mixed gender,” Gavroche said. “Pretty small operation, so the captain’s cocky. Expects a ninety percent arrest rate.”

“I assume the other ten percent is accounting for the officers’ _appetite_ for justice,” Jehan said bitterly, and Grantaire clapped them on the shoulder.

“Well, you know what they say about best-laid plans,” Bahorel said, grinning.

“Speaking of plans,” Enjolras said, and everyone’s attention snapped to him. It was the first time he had spoken since Gavroche had come barreling into the back room of the Musain, demanding The Map and their undivided attention. “Joly’s right—we don’t have much time. So let’s get to it.”

The atmosphere shifted in the room, a palpable buzz of excitement catching hold of the group. If there was one thing Les Amis de l’ABC excelled at, it was strategy. All eyes trained on Enjolras. Palms began to itch, feet shuffled restlessly. Les Amis technically didn’t have a leader, according to their official guidelines; every member, human or vampire, had a voice, and everyone’s opinion mattered. But get any of them alone and ask for a name, and all fingers would unanimously point to Enjolras. Well-bred and beautiful, gifted with a chess player’s mind and speech that could move masses, Enjolras had the privilege of being handed the world on a silver platter, and the audacity to reject it on principle. His ideals were unshakable, his focus singular. He was at once their fearless general, their prophet of equality, and their valued friend. And Enjolras’s friendship was as intense and unwavering as his beliefs.

“If it’s as small an operation as you say, we’ll need no more than two, maybe three, men on the inside,” Enjolras began, leaning his fists on the table. “It’ll have to be vampires, as well.”

He shot a challenging look to Grantaire, who, for once, didn’t scoff, roll his eyes, or otherwise viciously imply that Enjolras’s leadership was inappropriate for a human rights activist group.

“What?” Grantaire said, nonplussed. “I’m not a complete idiot, I know humans can’t just waltz into a brothel for vampires.”

Enjolras didn’t look entirely convinced, but he accepted the logic with grace and carried on.

“Combeferre and I will infiltrate, spread the word as quickly and quietly as we can,” he said. “We’ll have to stagger their exits, preferably not out the front door.”

“There are three secret passages out of the building,” Gavroche interrupted with a proud, gap-toothed smile. 

“Makes sense for an illegal organization,” Bossuet said with a loaded wink directed to the group in general. Naturally, the Musain had no less than five secret exits, two of which were tunnels that led to safe houses.

“After that it’s a matter of getting them to bases,” Enjolras continued, and pointed to two circled M’s on The Map. “Bahorel and Feuilly will escort them. Send half to the Pigalle station, half to Blanche. You know what to do from there.”

All around there were nods of comprehension. This wasn’t the first time they had to get people underground, and they had faced far more complex and delicate situations than evacuating a handful of prostitutes who were most likely already off the grid anyway. Fake papers weren’t necessary when you weren’t in the system to begin with.

Combeferre took his tablet out of his bag and began hammering out the details, running figures and analyzing routes and safe houses. The location was actually ideal, far from their corner of Paris and requiring at least one transfer on the metro no matter which line they took. There were bases that were much closer to the quarter in question than the Musain, and most of them would be sent to those in roundabout, complicated ways. He doubted the police would be very interested in pursuing a handful of nameless strippers for very long, but it didn’t hurt to be on the safe side. Gavroche had already sent him a blueprint of the brothel, and Combeferre switched between that and a map of the surrounding streets before creating a loose timetable.

It was nearing two in the morning when they set out, Combeferre and Enjolras first, with Feuilly and Bahorel a healthy distance behind so as not to attract suspicion. Humans and vampires occupied the same spaces, used the same facilities, and certainly interacted on a daily basis; but they did not walk together, and now was the time to be discreet.

The Musain sat on the corner of Boulevard Saint-Michel and Rue Soufflot, facing the Place Edmond Rostand and, beyond that, the Jardin du Luxembourg. A block away from the Sorbonne, it was, by all appearances, a popular bar for locals and tourists alike. Students flocked to the booths and tables to rendezvous and study for exams, and tourists stopped at the bar for a pick-me-up en route from the Jardin du Luxembourg to the Panthéon. With such a particularly liberal clientele, not to mention the owner, Floréal, being a half-breed herself, the Musain was known to serve an eclectic crowd of both vampires and humans impartially. 

It was also notoriously the place to go for fostering clandestine relationships between vampires and humans, a fact the regulars took pride in keeping under wraps. What happened in the Musain, stayed in the Musain.

Few people knew, however, that the property of the Musain extended beyond the bar area on the ground floor and encompassed nearly half of the upstairs units on the block. The first floor above the bar was home base for Les Amis, and several of them occupied other units that fell under Floréal’s jurisdiction. There was a direct passage that led out onto Rue Cujas on the north side of the block, and it was from that back entrance that Enjolras, Combeferre, Bahorel, and Feuilly stepped out.

They walked briskly along the west side of the Sorbonne, past students just getting out of class or going to the library, young-looking enough to blend in with the passerby (as well as Enjolras could blend in anywhere). Right at the museum, up Rue de Cluny, and they reached the metro station in record time. A brief ride on line ten, then they transferred to the twelve at Sèvres-Babylones and took it all the way to Pigalle, receiving text updates from Gavroche on the status of the police bust the entire way. Feuilly and Bahorel were in a different car, and the four ran over the plan and coordination over coded group messages while the train sped on its wobbly frame.

The club was midway down Rue Frochot, stuck like a Lego between a sex shop and sleazy-looking Irish pub. Enjolras actually snorted when he saw the sign, _‘l’Accrocheur’_ in elegant, gold script above the entrance (as if that could class it up somehow).

“Joly would appreciate that pun,” Combeferre said, appraising the building. According to Gavroche’s source, the brothel operated from the back room of the club, with private rooms occupying the first and second floors of the four story building. To its credit, the club looked completely ordinary, right down to the gaggle of girls waiting at the entrance, clad in dangerously high heels and huddled together for warmth, and the stern-looking bouncer guarding the door. Then again, it was Pigalle; if Combeferre had to place a bet where there would be an underground red light district, he would guess there.

They caught the bouncer’s attention as they approached, and he set his feet more firmly apart as he eyed them up and down, bulky arms crossed over a bulky chest.

“There’s a line,” he grunted, shoving his thumb at the girls behind the rope barrier, who were giving them annoyed and appreciative looks in equal measure.

“We’re regulars,” Enjolras said smoothly, and he and Combeferre flashed the tokens Gavroche had given them. Copper red and roughly the size of a two-Euro coin, they had and intricate _A_ embossed on one side and a crude set of fanged teeth on the other. The bouncer relaxed when he saw them, nodding wordlessly and unclenching his painfully flexed muscles. He stepped aside and held open the door, and Combeferre and Enjolras glanced at one other before crossing the threshold.

The bass-heavy music hit them first, _thump-thumping_ through Combeferre’s bones and stuttering out a buzzing metronome in the back of his skull. Then the wave of heat slapped them full-blast, humid and smelling of sweat and inebriation. Saturday night—or morning—was the time to go clubbing, and the floor was duly filled to capacity; pushing their way through the thick mass of people to get to the back of the club actually took them a solid few minutes. Enjolras had no reservations about letting his disdain show, scowling at the sticky floor, the lump of bodies writhing to the beat, the neon backlit bar, and partying in general. Combeferre would have laughed if they weren’t on a covert extraction mission.

Another walking muscle of a bouncer stood guard at the back, in front of a drawn black curtain. Unlike his friend outside, he took the time to pat them down and thoroughly examine their tokens before handing them back. 

“’I wish they’d keep the Eiffel Tower lit up all night,’” he said, eyes flickering expectedly between them.

“’It makes the stars shine brighter,’” Combeferre recited, and the bouncer waved them through, already focused elsewhere.

A dark, narrow hallway led them to another door, cushioned and lined with shiny, red plastic, like the booth of an American diner. Enjolras walked ahead as usual, pulling his phone out in the process and glancing at the screen. Combeferre followed suit, and saw the text from Feuilly notifying them that he and Bahorel had secured the back exits and were in position.

“We have roughly an hour,” Enjolras told him, hand on the door knob. _Until the cops show,_ Combeferre knew. It did not give them a lot of time, but they had been on tighter schedules before.

Without another word, he pushed the door open, and they were greeted with the sight of _l’Accrocheur_ ’s best-kept secret. The room was small and intimate, with a smattering of couches and armchairs that glowed under the black light. The furniture was arranged around a raised stage complete with three poles, and there was a tidy-looking bar in the corner. Men in expensive dinner jackets leaned against the bar with cocktails and lounged on the couches, watching scantily clad humans, men and women both, strut around, batting their eyelashes and trailing their fingers along the black collars around their necks. A few of them sat sprawled next to the men on the couches, talking quietly with sultry smiles. It was incredibly well insulated, and as soon as the door shut behind Combeferre the thrumming bass from the club abruptly cut off. The music here was slow and seductive, and a few of the humans danced on the stage, undulating their hips and slinking circuits around the poles.

Enjolras touched Combeferre’s arm for a brief moment, then left to take a seat at the bar, eyes scanning and assessing the room. At least two of the prostitutes’ gazes were instantly drawn to him, and Combeferre doubted Enjolras would have any trouble attracting people willing to listen to their plan.

Adjusting his glasses, Combeferre set out for the opposite side of the stage, settling into an unoccupied armchair and letting his eyes wander to the humans they were supposed to be rescuing. He counted six on the floor and three onstage, which meant at least three more were… _occupied_ upstairs. Enjolras was already speaking in hushed tones to one at the bar, a pretty girl in a leather corset and a fan of fake eyelashes. He looked like any other client, whispering in her ear while keeping a hand on her elbow. Let no one say Enjolras was incapable of acting the part.

Combeferre turned his attention to the stage, and that was when he saw him.

Black leather pants painted on shapely legs, dark curls over dark eyes and a sinful mouth set in a mischievous smirk, he danced, shirtless and glowing under the purple and blue stage lights. A chain dangled from his collar (against smooth, tan skin, lithe with a hint of definition in the abdomen) and clipped on to his pants. Combeferre watched, mesmerized, as he leaned back against a pole and slowly lowered himself onto his haunches, then stood just as slowly, ass-first, dragging his hands up his legs and biting his lip coyly.

Combeferre’s mouth was suddenly very dry. The boy continued canting his hips to the rhythm, idly fondling the chain grazing his stomach, mouthing the words to the song as he sashayed across the stage. Another human, a petite girl in booty shorts and combat boots, danced closer to him and said something against his ear, navigating him around with a hand at his waist. The boy’s eyes flashed to Combeferre’s, and Combeferre felt the wind get knocked out of him. 

A roguish smile spread like molasses across the boy’s face, and then he was leaving the stage and slinking, cat-like, to where Combeferre was sitting, never once breaking eye contact, and the room got about ten degrees warmer.

“Hey, baby,” the boy purred, leaning his hands against the arms of Combeferre’s chair and angling forward into his space. “Like what you see?”

His chain dangled forward and clinked against a button on Combeferre’s shirt, and Combeferre felt a sharp urge to pull him forward by it. He clenched his fists and mentally chided himself.

“A little too much,” he admitted, and the boy’s face lit up with pleasant surprise.

“Don’t hear that often,” he said. His hands left the armchair to slide up Combeferre’s thighs instead, making Combeferre jolt in his seat. 

The boy laughed. “Relax, baby, I won’t bite.” His hands drifted up Combeferre’s chest and massaged his shoulders lightly. “That’s your job, remember?”

Combeferre searched his face, took in the dark circles that asserted themselves under his smudged eyeliner and the decidedly blank look behind his sultry gaze, and felt vaguely sick.

 _I wouldn’t do that_ , he wanted to say.

Instead, he asked, “What’s your name?”

The boy hummed and settled more comfortably on his lap, wrapping his arms around his neck.

“They call me Fey,” he said, tracing one finger along Combeferre’s jawline. “But you can call me whatever you want.”

Combeferre glided his hand up the boy’s arm and snuck a glance at his watch. Forty-five minutes.

“How much are you charging, love?” he asked. 

Fey’s grin widened as he tilted his head to the side, eyes slowly sliding up and down his frame—probably only evaluating how expensive his clothing was, but it still made Combeferre feel bizarrely self-conscious.

“I’m sure you could afford it,” he said at last, and tapped an index finger against Combeferre’s chin. “And since you’re new, I’ll give you a special discount.”

The clock was ticking. Out of the corner of his eye, Combeferre saw the girl Enjolras had been talking to walk away from the bar, a pinched expression on her face. She climbed onto the stage and danced close to one of her coworkers, whispering in his ear in a way that looked entirely natural. The other prostitute’s eyes widened for a brief moment before sliding back into a neutral expression as he nodded once and continued to dance.

The word was spreading. If they wanted a chance of getting everyone out safely, Combeferre needed to speed things up on his end.

He snatched Fey’s hand and bent it forward to plant a kiss on the knuckles, watching him blink in surprise and utter a small, charmed laugh.

“Whatever you’re charging, I’ll pay you double.” _I’ll give you your freedom._ “Do you have a room available now?”

“Impatient, are we?” Fey tossed his head in a practiced move, sending perfectly tousled curls out of his eyes, and gave Combeferre a knowing smirk. “Let’s go, then.”

Not letting go of his hand, he slid off Combeferre’s lap, winding their fingers together and tugging him off the armchair. He began to lead them toward the back of the room, threading his way between the seats and patrons and giving his friend from earlier—the girl with the combat boots—a small wave. When they passed by the bar, Combeferre made eye contact with Enjolras, who understood his wordless expression and gave him the slightest of nods before getting up to seek out another worker.

They had less than forty minutes. Combeferre focused his attention back to the boy holding his hand, taking them through the silky curtains lining the walls and leaving the parlor room behind. He could not tell where the room ended, if there was even a solid wall there, but somehow they entered a hallway, dimly lit and lined with rich, red curtains. _More fabric than wall,_ Combeferre thought, arching an eyebrow. He had to admit it added to the dreamy, sensual atmosphere the establishment seemed keen on cultivating.

Between the curtains there were doors, padded like the one at the entrance to the main room. Probably just as sound-proof. Each door had a small, red light where the peephole would have been.

Fey’s skin had a soft, pinkish glow from the light reflecting off the fabric.

Combeferre set his jaw and kept his focus. Soon, the hallway would be swarming with police. They needed to get to the other prostitutes, somehow; the ones earning their keep behind the padded doors he and his escort passed by. At the end of the hall was a staircase leading to more rooms, and Combeferre had the bleak thought that they might have severely underestimated the number of humans that needed to be evacuated.

“This should give us some privacy,” Fey said, stopping at one of the doors closer to the stairs, identical to all the others save for the little light, which was turned off.

Combeferre allowed himself to be led inside, where a large, canopied bed dominated the space, covered in silk and innumerable pillows. Like the hallway outside, the theme was red—crimson sheets, a ruffled, layered, red canopy; a thick, luxurious, red rug over the oak floors. White lace detail on the pillows added a little reprieve, but Combeferre still felt his senses a little assaulted.

There was not much else in the room, aside from the bed; an oak dresser in the corner, a matching bedside table by the bed. Candles _everywhere_. He supposed it was meant to be romantic, and maybe it would have been, in a different setting. Here, it just felt like part of an act. An elaborate, red stage.

No windows. But Combeferre had expected that.

Fey closed the door behind them, and, as expected, all outside noise was cut off. He flicked a switch next to the door, and Combeferre assumed the light on the outside turned on, signaling its occupancy. He tried in vain to remember how many doors in the hallway had their light switched on. Four? Five? How many more were lit upstairs?

“So,” Fey said, his voice low and enticing. He turned back to Combeferre, one hand idly dragging down the chain clasped to his collar. “How did you want to do this?”

Combeferre swept all intruding thoughts from his head and diligently did not let his eyes roam. He needed to act, and quickly.

Placing his hands on Fey’s shoulders, he leaned in until his lips were brushing against his ear.

“Listen, I need you to stay calm,” he murmured, running his hands down Fey’s bare arms. He gripped them just above the elbow, gently but securely. “The police are shutting this place down tonight.”

He heard Fey catch his breath.

“Are you a cop?” he whispered, utterly still in Combeferre’s hands.

“No,” he assured him. Fey relaxed by a fraction, but did not move. "I'm a friend."

Fey gasped sharply. His hands came to rest on Combeferre’s sides, clutching the fabric tightly. 

“You’re ABC, aren’t you?” he breathed.

Combeferre was not too surprised he knew about them. Their activist group had enough resources and influence to be on the national government’s black list; officials, police, the media—they all buried anything related to Les Amis, tried to erase all evidence of their existence and pretended any of their successful ventures were streaks of disorganized vigilantism.

Naturally, their efforts had the opposite effect, and just about everyone knew about them, if only the rumors. In many ways, ABC was a bright beacon of hope for the humans and half-breeds of Paris. They were the group that dared to bare its throat to the corrupt vampire state and say, _Try to stop me._

“Yes,” he said. “My name is Combeferre. And right now, I need your help.”

Fey drew himself closer, and Combeferre took that as a positive response. He tried to get a good look around the room from where he was standing, eyes flying to the light fixtures, the walls, the ceiling.

“Is there surveillance in here?” he asked, lips still pressed against Fey’s ear.

“Video,” Fey replied. “No audio, unless we press that call button by the door.”

Combeferre nodded and drew back, trying to look as normal as possible and hoping Fey would play along. He did not know how industrious the security was with monitoring the rooms, but they could not take any chances. He took Fey’s face in his hands and leaned in like he was going for a kiss, stopping a hair’s breadth away from his lips and closing his eyes.

“The cops will be here within half an hour,” he whispered into the small space between them. “My partner and I, we’re here to get you out before then. We have more men outside to get everyone to safety.”

Combeferre pulled back just far enough to read the boy’s expression. His eyes were large, glimmering pools of black, and there was a smile teasing at the corners of his full, red mouth. He looked like something not of this earth, an ethereal figure dripping in candlelight, daring you to come closer but impossible to catch hold of. He was a black hole wrapped in starlight. A cosmic storm that Combeferre wanted desperately to be caught in. 

_Focus._

“Enjolras—the blond man who came in with me—he’ll take care of everyone in the main room,” Combeferre told him. “One at a time, so as not to draw attention.”

As he spoke, Fey slid his jacket off his shoulders, trailing his fingers over Combeferre's chest and arms, making a convincing show for the cameras.

 _Too convincing,_ Combeferre thought nervously. Fey walked him backwards until they reached the bed, then pushed him onto the silk sheets.

“We need a way to tell people in this part of the club, though,” he continued, hoping his voice didn’t betray his growing desire. He pulled Fey closer by his chain, like he had wanted to in the main room, until he was between Combeferre’s legs. 

Fey bit his lip in thought while Combeferre unclipped the chain from his collar, then his pants, letting it fall with a series of clinks and a muffled thump on the fluffy rug.

“I could go door to door, pretend to be looking for something or delivering a message from the manager,” he said, but he looked uncertain, and Combeferre knew why. 

“That would fool the patrons, but not security,” Combeferre said, and Fey nodded. “How far do you think we’d get before they got suspicious?”

“Two, maybe three people,” he said. “And that’s just getting the word out. As soon as even one human tries to leave, the client would call management.”

That would not do. If management or security got tipped off there was going to be a bust, they would evacuate everyone en masse, and the police would be on them in a heartbeat.

Combeferre needed to think. If they had known about the sting even a night in advance, they would be better prepared… But there was no time. They needed to start getting humans out.

“At this point, we have nothing to lose,” Combeferre said. “If security starts asking questions, Enjolras and I will take care of it. We’ll extract them after getting everyone else out; if we’re quick enough about it, everyone will already be on the way out by the time management catches on.”

Fey nodded and stepped back, and Combeferre kicked himself for missing the warmth. 

“Wait here,” Fey said. _What?_ “It’ll be less suspicious if it’s just me going door to door. At least, for a while.”

He was already turning for the door when Combeferre’s brain caught up. Of course, logically, it made sense for Fey to do this part alone, but the thought of sitting idly by while someone he was supposed to be _rescuing_ threw himself head-first into a dangerous mission did not sit well with him. It was not that he did not trust Fey—on the contrary, something about the human gave him absolute confidence in his ability to be discreet. He was also certain Fey knew all the secret exits of the club that Gavroche had informed them of, and possibly a few more. It always paid to have someone on the inside.

But if things were to go south (and there was a very high probability they would), Combeferre did not want to be responsible for putting him in harm’s way. Fey was a civilian, and _human,_ which put him at greater risk than himself, even with his affiliation with an anti-establishment group.

Combeferre stood and pulled Fey back by the wrist, stopping him in his tracks.

“No way, you’re not doing this without me,” he said, and kept talking when Fey opened his mouth to protest. “This is much more dangerous for you than it is for me. I’m here to protect you, and—“

“Protect me?” Fey interrupted, laughing humorlessly. “From what? Vampires?”

He wrenched his arm away, a fire lit in his eyes that was positively captivating. He smiled ironically.

“I’ve been dealing with your kind for a long time, baby.” He traced a finger over the glossy surface of his collar. “Part of the job, in case you didn’t notice. I can handle myself.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Combeferre said, clenching his hands at his sides. “But if the police catch you, no amount of lap dances or batting your eyelashes will keep them from _killing you_.”

Color flooded Fey’s cheeks. “Listen, you—“

The door banged open, and Enjolras came thundering in like a hurricane. He spared Fey a glance before settling his gaze on Combeferre, and his expression made Combeferre’s blood run cold.

“They’re here,” Enjolras said in a clipped tone.

Combeferre ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. “We were supposed to have another half hour.”

“Well, they’re early,” Enjolras snapped. He whipped out his phone and began rapid-fire texting, presumably to Feuilly. “They got tipped off somehow. We need to get as many people out as we can and then we need to _leave._ ”

“How many have you gotten out so far?” Combeferre asked, afraid of the answer. Enjolras’s tight frown was answer enough, but he replied anyway.

“Three.”

Combeferre swore under his breath.

“They’ll be coming through the main door, assuming they don’t know about the hidden exits,” Enjolras continued, shoving his phone back in his pocket. The cameras in the room briefly entered Combeferre’s mind, but he figured there was no use putting on an act anymore. The place would be shut down in a matter of minutes.

“All the humans out there know about the bust by now. It’ll be chaotic, but there’s no time to try to get them out one-by-one now. I’ll give them the warning signal and hope for the best.”

Before Combeferre could respond, a scream tore through the hallway. Then another rose to meet it, joined by the sound of glass smashing, chairs scraping against the floor—soon, it was all a jumbled, cacophonous roar, punctuated by what Combeferre hoped to God weren’t gunshots.

“Shit,” Enjolras hissed.

Fey sprang into action, bolting out the door before Combeferre or Enjolras could even think to stop him.

“Wait!” Combeferre ran out after him. Instead of heading toward an exit, Fey had stopped in the middle of the hall, pulling aside a curtain to reveal a call box on the wall. He grabbed the phone off the hook and pressed it to his ear, punching a button on the box.

“Police raid!” he barked into the phone. Combeferre heard the static echo of his words in the private room they’d just left, door still ajar, and realized the phone must have been connected to the speakers in every room.

He noted with a sinking feeling that Enjolras had disappeared, most likely to go straight into the fray. The man had no sense of self-preservation.

“Take the back exits, there’s help outside. _Go!_ ”

Doors began opening on either side of the hall, people spilling out in various states of undress. They moved quickly down the hall, away from the main room, sharing distressed looks with one another as the noise behind them grew louder and more panicked. Combeferre knew there was an exit by the stairs, hidden behind the endless curtains. The other two exits were on the next floor up, leading to a fire escape. He did not see anyone come down the stairs, so he assumed people were using those to get to the alley below.

Enjolras reappeared at their side, golden hair disheveled and tie loose around his neck.

“We need to go,” he said. “Now.”

People were pouring past them now, a tidal wave of vampires and humans shouting and pushing at each other. There were not that many people in the brothel to begin with, but the hallway was small and cramped and only allowed for two people to go at a time, and they were quickly becoming bottle-necked. Still, more people came, forced to seek an alternative exit that was not barred by cops.

“Eponine,” Fey said suddenly, whirling toward Enjolras. “Did you get her out?”

“Who?”

“ _Eponine,_ my friend, Eponine!” Fey shouted over the crowd, growing frantic. Combeferre remembered the girl in the combat boots.

“Short, dark hair, bangs,” Combeferre quickly summarized, and Enjolras’s confused expression cleared.

“The last time I saw her, she was in the main room,” he said, shaking his head. “We’ll do our best to get her out, but you need to—hey, wait!”

Fey was already gone, shoving against the tide, heading directly toward the mayhem. Combeferre made to go after him—

An impossibly loud _bang_ sent Combeferre's ears ringing as a bullet whistled past his head. Everyone threw themselves to the ground, the shouts around them turning into screams of terror. Something wet and warm trickled down Combeferre’s face.

“They’re not even trying to arrest anyone.” Enjolras’s voice was seething. “They’re just shooting randomly, goddamn fucking _pigs._ ”

There were police in the crowd now, and the wave became a stampede as people fought to escape. More bullets ripped through the air, the acrid smell of sulfur rising in plumes of smoke, and with them the levels of hysteria escalated more and more. Enjolras shouldered his way forward like a bull, Combeferre hanging on to his shirt to stay together. Bodies slammed into him from all sides with bruising force, until he felt like a piece of meat being tenderized. He only knew they were heading in the right direction because everyone else was going the opposite way.

The crowd soon thinned and a police uniform emerged; a grimacing man brandishing a gun at the civilians. Without pausing for a breath, Enjolras grabbed his gun and slammed a fist into the vampire’s nose, sending him careening backwards into the wall. A bartender, passing by, took the opportunity to sucker punch the officer in the groin before moving on.

They were almost at the main room when Fey and Eponine tumbled through the curtains, crashing straight into them. Combeferre noticed that Eponine had also managed to get her hands on a gun, pointing it steadily behind them while they regained their footing.

“Go, go, go!” Fey yelled, spinning Combeferre around and pushing him back down the hallway.

Two police officers burst out after them, sending the curtains billowing up like clouds. Eponine fired and missed, the bullet embedding itself into the pillowed wall. The second shot hit one of the cops in the leg, and he tripped his colleague on his way down.

“This way,” Fey called, pulling Combeferre into one of the abandoned rooms. Enjolras and Eponine were quick to follow, shutting and bolting the door behind them.

Fey immediately crossed the room in quick strides and began running his hands over the patterned wallpaper, muttering to himself.

“Come on, come on… _Yes!_ ” he exclaimed, shooting them a victorious grin over his shoulder. “Got it!”

He wedged his fingers into the tiny, unnoticeable gap in the wall and began to pull, leaning all his weight back. After a moment, the space in the wall began to move, and the sliver of a doorway appeared. Once Fey tugged the door free of the wall, it swung back easily, making him stumble back.

Beyond the door was a steep set of stairs, which Fey practically flew up, Eponine close on his tail. Enjolras and Combeferre shared a look, but wordlessly followed. There was no way they could go back the way they came.

The hazardous staircase felt like the rickety ascent to an old house's attic, each step creaking and groaning under their feet. It was not musty, though; on the contrary, Combeferre felt a cold breeze cut across his sore cheek.

The stairs led directly to a narrow balcony overlooking a back alley. With the breeze came the sound of sirens, and Combeferre felt his cheek stinging as he grinned, adrenaline pumping through his veins.

“Gavroche didn’t know about this one,” he said to Enjolras, who actually laughed.

“No, he didn’t,” he agreed.

Without wasting any time, they escaped into the cool embrace of the night, climbing down the small ladder off the side of the balcony and hopping to the ground below. This close to dawn, the air had become crisp and biting, and Combeferre wished he still had his jacket so he could wrap it around Fey’s exposed shoulders. 

The four of them crept along the side of the building, sticking to side streets the entire way to Blanche. The sound of sirens soon faded behind them, but they did not dare to risk walking out in the open. Gradient by gradient, the sky began to lighten to the east, a dusty grey-ish blue that sucked the saturation from the city. Soon, the sun would peek out over the horizon; by then, the streets would be mostly empty, save for a human or two, and Paris would sleep.

Bahorel and Feuilly met them in a narrow alley a block away from the station, staring between them, Eponine and Fey with bewildered expressions. Combeferre belatedly realized the entire left side of his face was crusted in blood.

Feuilly whistled lowly.

“I know things didn’t go according to plan, but Jesus Christ,” he said mildly. “What the hell?”

“We had some setbacks,” Enjolras said. His hair was an absolute mess. "How many humans did you evacuate?"

" _All_ of them," Bahorel said, his grin gleaming white against his dark skin. "A few are in bad shape, but nothing Joly can't take care of. They're all in safe houses by now."

"Almost all of them," Feuilly corrected, shifting his attention to the two shivering humans at Enjolras and Combeferre's side. "Hi, friends."

Bahorel quickly pulled his sweatshirt over his head and offered it to Eponine, who pulled it on and sighed gratefully at the warmth. Feuilly followed suit and gave Fey his flannel, a kind smile on his freckled face. Enjolras was studying them with a thoughtful look that Combeferre could not parse out. No doubt the gears were turning in his big, strategic brain.

"They proved to be really helpful," he said, and that was a big compliment coming from Enjolras.

“I shot a cop,” Eponine said proudly.

“ _Nice_ ,” Bahorel said, high-fiving her.

“And Fey saved all our asses,” Combeferre felt obliged to add, nodding at the boy beside him. "He knew another secret exit."

“Courfeyrac,” he said while buttoning up Feuilly’s shirt. It was a size too big and made him look softer somehow, edges smoothed and sanded down. He looked straight into Combeferre’s eyes and tossed his hair back, a wide, genuine smile dimpling his cheeks. “My name is Courfeyrac.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Pigalle is the area in Paris where the Moulin Rouge is. If there's anywhere you're likely to find prostitutes in Paris, it's Pigalle.
>   * _L'Accrocheur_ : Are you guys ready for this layered pun? "Accrocheur" means eye-catching. The verb form, "accrocher," means to hook onto something- so the noun form _literally_ means a hooker. And "croc," which is part of the word, means fangs.
>   * I imagine the song that's playing when Combeferre first sees Courfeyrac is "Got It" by Marianna Hill.
> 

> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed this first chapter! Don't worry, all the details of living in a society dominated by vampires will be cleared up eventually. We're gonna have some fun, kids. Hit me up on tumblr at [courfalicious](courfalicious.tumblr.com) or [infinite-mirrors.](infinite-mirrors.tumblr.com)


	2. Une Immense Espérance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac and Eponine are invited to join Les Amis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to my friend [M_bee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Bee/profile) for beta-ing this chapter, even though she doesn't know who half these French dorks are. #Blessed.

A suspended quiet settled over Paris with the dawn. The sun was just grazing the horizon when they arrived at the Musain, gleaming gold against the slopes of the mansard roofs and casting an orange blush on the pillars of the Panthéon, making it look like something outside of time—an ancient temple dedicated to the gods of old. The wide streets were empty and shimmering as though embedded with diamonds in the light.

Combeferre and Enjolras relied on the long shadows of the early morning to avoid the fingers of sunlight combing through the city. The light never touched their skin, but Combeferre still felt uncomfortably warm, and the impossible brightness made him squint and his forehead throb.

Feuilly, Bahorel, Eponine, and Courfeyrac all walked in the open, impervious to the light; it caressed their skin like a kiss, streaking through their hair and pulling smiles to their lips. The sun was a blanket for them, comforting and nourishing and gentle in its embrace. Combeferre wondered what it was like to be so loved by a star.

The café was closed for the day. Everyone was still gathered in their headquarters upstairs, sleep drooping their eyelids and sagging their shoulders. Joly looked especially haggard, having treated a handful of injured people that had emerged from the police raid. Mission status updates had been sent regularly to all members, so there was no reason for them to wait up for them, really. Yet they were all there, even Grantaire, with a sketchpad balanced on his knee, a mug of coffee in one hand and a pencil in the other.

“We’re back!” Bahorel announced, bringing a fresh wave of energy to the stagnant room. Bodies stirred in response, shuffling out of seats, bleary faces blinking and yawning to life.

“And we brought company,” Feuilly said, although it was entirely unnecessary. Everyone was already giving Courfeyrac and Eponine appraising looks, curious and mostly inoffensive. 

Still, Eponine immediately tensed, and Courfeyrac put an appeasing hand on her arm. He did not look entirely comfortable, himself.

“Sorry,” Jehan said, spreading their arms in a mollifying gesture. “You must be a little overwhelmed. You’re amongst friends, though.”

“We’ll do introductions later, after everyone gets some rest,” Combeferre said sensibly. “I think we’ve all been through enough for the night.”

“Will you be staying here?” Joly piped up, somehow still open and cheerful despite looking thoroughly drained. “We have the space.”

Courfeyrac glanced at Combeferre and Enjolras, then shared a long look with Eponine, a silent conversation passing between them.

“Would staying here mean joining the, um,” Eponine started, gesturing toward the gathered group with a sharp wave of her hand. “Vigilante justice thing?”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Enjolras said firmly. “We run a highly illegal organization that is in constant risk of discovery. If you don’t want to join ABC, we can set you up in a safe house until you find other accommodations. But we could really use your help here.”

Combeferre silently agreed. As messy as the extraction mission had been that night, he was certain it would have gone a lot worse without Courfeyrac and Eponine’s help. Enjolras seemed impartial on the matter, but Combeferre could tell he hoped they would choose to join ABC. They would be valuable assets to the cause.

“I’ll stay,” Courfeyrac said quietly. Away from the soft, dim lighting of the club, he looked worn, wrung out like a sponge. The shadows under his eyes were prominent, and his hair lacked the shine and buoyancy Combeferre thought it might be capable of under difference circumstances. 

When he met Enjolras’s eyes, he looked unshakable. 

“I want to help.”

After a pause, Eponine sighed and said, “Yeah, okay. I’ll stay, too.”

A pleased smile graced Enjolras’s face, and the collective breath everyone had been holding was released. 

“Welcome to Les Amis!” Joly exclaimed, and Grantaire raised his coffee cup to them, chiming in with a “Here, here!”

“I’ll show you your rooms,” Combeferre said, hoping to wrap things up so they could rest. They were practically swaying on their feet. “We’ll get you some clothes, too.”

“Oh, and you don’t have to keep your necks covered when you’re here,” Feuilly said, eyes flickering to the shiny collars still around their throats.

Courfeyrac started, his small smile slipping from his face. He looked at Feuilly, who had taken his scarf off as soon as they had entered the building, then switched his gaze to the rest of the room, seeming to pick out the humans. Combeferre watched as realization dawned on his face; Bahorel, Grantaire, Joly, Musichetta—all of them had their necks exposed. Combeferre hazarded a guess that Eponine had already noticed the discrepancy earlier, because she did not look so much as fazed.

“Oh,” Courfeyrac said softly. His hand came up to hover over his collar.

“Or, you can,” Combeferre added, not sure what made him say it. Something to do the guarded look that had crept back into Courfeyrac’s eyes. “It’s up to you. But you’re not obligated to.”

“You definitely don’t have to wear _those_ things anymore,” Musichetta remarked with a disdainful frown.

 _You should have seen the chain,_ Combeferre thought.

Something was not right. The way Courfeyrac trained his gaze to the floor, fidgeting with the sleeves of Feuilly’s borrowed shirt and suddenly looking like he wanted to be anywhere but there. In contrast, Eponine seemed to stand up straighter, her eyes becoming hard like flint and her hands shaking at her sides. 

A delayed question entered Combeferre’s head, and he could not shake it. The brothel had been run from the back of the club, where regular patrons were barred from entering. If their job was to seduce vampires, why keep their necks covered at all?

The room was silent again, sensing the change in the atmosphere. Eponine was the first to reach for her collar, working at the clasp in front. Courfeyrac closed his eyes and took a steadying breath before following suit.

Their collars came undone, and Combeferre thought he was going to be sick at what he saw.

Bruises mottled their necks, tiny, red dots in the center of each purplish circle. The sets of two overlapped each other in places, forming a canvas of blue and gray and sickly yellow.

Some of the bites were not as neat as others.

“Fuck,” Grantaire said.

Jehan covered their mouth with their hand and looked away. Feuilly also looked away, his jaw tense. The others stared in a mix of horror and anger, the shock of these strangers’ reality sinking in like an anchor.

Enjolras looked _livid._

“Who did this to you?” he asked lowly.

Eponine cast him a morbid smile. She still stood tall, chin up, a challenge in her fierce eyes. “You want a list?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said seriously. 

Courfeyrac was still staring at the ground, something akin to shame furrowing his brows, but he smiled at that.

“We don’t have any of the patrons’ information, ourselves,” he said, finally looking up but still not making eye contact with anyone. “I’m sure half of them are locked up by now, anyway.”

“Yeah, and they’ll be released by sunset,” Eponine said bitterly. “You bet your ass they had money, going to a place like that regularly.”

“We can do better than getting them behind bars,” Enjolras declared.

Combeferre finally tore his gaze away from Courfeyrac’s marred neck.

“We are not killing anyone, Enjolras,” he said, though he was sorely tempted. Now that the horror and nausea had worn off, he was left with a rage he had not thought himself capable of. It seeped into his veins and flooded his core, white-hot and demanding.

There was a reason every human in the country was required to donate blood once a month. The blood was processed, refined down and concentrated, and made into capsules, which were distributed to every vampire in the system. One capsule every two days provided the nutrition vampires needed and kept blood lust at bay; they were tasteless, of course, but entirely worth the alternative.

Combeferre knew there were vampires who preferred the real thing. Elitists who turned their noses up at the safer, more humane method. They preached the ways of _the old days_ , the way their ancestors adhered to the _natural order_. Predator and prey. Pseudo-science meets conservative, intolerant bullshit. Illegal human brothels provided a setting for those vampires to indulge their backwards ethics, without potentially putting themselves or their family names in hot water. Consensual feeding was not strictly prohibited by law, but vampire-human relations _were,_ and the two were irrefutably linked.

Knowing about something and seeing it are two very different things. Looking at Courfeyrac and Eponine made Combeferre never want to touch blood again, even in capsule form.

“No use getting riled up about it now.” Eponine shrugged her thin shoulders, the tightness in her expression betraying her true feelings.

“Can we just…” Courfeyrac’s voice was small and fragile in a way Combeferre could not stand. “Not talk about it? I’m tired, and I just want…” 

He sighed out a harsh breath and clutched the fabric of Feuilly’s shirt tighter to himself. 

“Okay,” Combeferre said complacently. “Okay. Let’s get you to your rooms.”

He wanted to put a hand on Eponine’s shoulder, or Courfeyrac’s back, as a sign of comfort. He refrained, though, heading to the hallway with a gesture for them to follow. A vampire’s touch was probably the last thing either of them wanted.

“Wait,” Enjolras said, just as they were exiting the room. Courfeyrac and Eponine paused at the door, which Combeferre was holding open for them. Enjolras had his leader face on, blue eyes hard like ice and jaw set in unwavering determination, hair no longer just a mess but a wild mane. He was both a mountain and a natural disaster, relentless and unyielding.

“I want you to know,” he said with all the strength of his convictions. “I swear to you, that will never happen to you again. You are safe with us.”

They stared at him, somewhat dumbstruck. It was the usual reaction Enjolras inspired in people, and Combeferre was no different, even after years of friendship.

Then Bossuet chimed in, with an ingratiating grin, “Yeah, we won’t bite.”

There was a moment of precarious silence as the newcomers looked from Enjolras to Bossuet, an instant in time teetering on the edge of something unknown. Then Courfeyrac uttered a small giggle, which turned into a laugh, bubbling out of him like an overflowing pot of boiling water. Eponine’s shoulders relaxed minutely, and she joined in the laughter. It felt like a release, shedding water to make room for something new.

A fresh start.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Courfeyrac slept for twelve hours.

When he finally cracked open his sleep-crusted eyes, the last rays of the sunset were spilling through the blinds, striping the bedroom in a vivid orange. The room was sparsely furnished, with nothing but a full-sized bed, a chest of drawers, and a plain, wooden chair in the corner. The floors were a honey-toned hardwood, the walls white and blank.

No red. Courfeyrac smiled.

He stretched his arms overhead and yawned widely, then got up and ambled to the bathroom at the end of the small hallway. It was clean and brightly lit, and, like the bedroom, a blank canvas. Courfeyrac washed his face, scrubbing off the dirt and dried sweat and eyeliner until his skin tingled.

There was a mirror above the sink. He did not look in it.

The compact kitchen was devoid of any food, as anticipated, but at least the refrigerator worked. Courfeyrac’s stomach growled impatiently, and he wondered how he would pay for food. In his room at the brothel, he had stashed away his savings inside the mattress; but there was no accessing that now. All that miserable work, wasted. Courfeyrac sighed and leaned against the kitchen counter, cradling his head in his hands. _What now what now what now…_

A timid knock at the door startled him out of his spiraling thoughts. He stared at the door, chewing on his lip, until a second knock came, a little louder.

_You’re amongst friends here._

Courfeyrac let out a slow breath, then went to answer the door.

A nervous-looking vampire stood in the threshold, a bundle of clothes in his hands and a smile plastered to his face. Sleek, black hair, angled features that seemed at odds with his diffident expression. Handsome, in that unsettling way they always were. Pretty Venus flytraps.

“Hi… Courfeyrac, right?” he said. His smile wavered when he caught sight of Courfeyrac’s neck, and Courfeyrac fought the urge to cover himself, or slam the door in the vampire’s face. “Enjolras told me we’re around the same size, so…” he held up the clothes in offering. “I’m Marius.”

He squinted against the light coming through the blinds, still smiling uneasily, like he was at a job interview. It was oddly disarming. Despite what all his prior experience was telling him, Courfeyrac got the feeling this particular vampire was completely harmless.

“Thanks,” Courfeyrac said, taking the clothes from him. “Come in, if you want? I can close the blinds.”

“Oh, no, I just came by to drop those off,” Marius said apologetically, shoving his now-empty hands into his pockets. “And to tell you that, you know, if you need anything, I’m right down the hall. And Grantaire lives upstairs.”

Eponine’s apartment, he knew, was one door to the right. He had no idea who Grantaire was, and he did not bother asking. He would probably find out soon enough.

“Does Combeferre live here, too?” Courfeyrac heard himself saying, and immediately wondered why it mattered.

“No, he and Enjolras live on the right bank,” Marius said, seeming to find nothing odd about the question. “Fourth, I think? Anyway, I saw Eponine in the café downstairs. There’s food, if you’re hungry.”

On cue, Courfeyrac’s stomach let out another displeased rumble, and Marius’s smile became a shade less nervous.

“Thanks,” Courfeyrac said again, kinder this time. “So, you met Eponine? Sorry if she gave you a hard time, she’s a little prickly around new people.”

“Really?” Marius gave him a politely confused look. “She seemed fine to me. A little shy, actually.”

That gave Courfeyrac pause. He wondered if they were talking about the same person, or if Marius just saw someone who _looked_ like Eponine downstairs. It seemed unlikely, but then, so did the possibility of anyone thinking an appropriate adjective for Eponine was _shy._

“Anyway, I have to go, but…” Marius stuck his hand out hopefully. “It was really nice to meet you. If you need anything, or want to say hi, or… yeah, anything. I’m here.”

After a beat, Courfeyrac accepted the handshake, not wanting to be rude to this strangely docile vampire who had given him real clothes. Real clothes, and an offer of friendship. The feel of his skin was all too dreadfully familiar—cold, a little too smooth, with a weight and plasticity behind it that was just outside of human. Courfeyrac fought down a shudder.

Marius turned to leave, then spun back around on his heel.

“One last thing,” he said, giving Courfeyrac an earnest look. “I’m really sorry, about your neck… That shouldn’t have happened.”

Courfeyrac looked away, self-conscious and hating the pity in Marius’s eyes.

“Yeah,” he managed to utter rigidly. _Go away._

Marius left, and Courfeyrac washed his hands in the kitchen sink.

With nothing but his empty stomach keeping him company, Courfeyrac changed into the clothes Marius had given him. They were a good fit, even if the soft, green color of the button-up did not suit his skin tone. Courfeyrac was just glad there was no leather. A soft, plain, gray scarf had come with the bundle, the tag still attached. Courfeyrac wound it around his neck and made for the front door, grabbing the key on the kitchen counter on the way out.

The Musain was just beginning to fill up when he descended the stairs, the smell of freshly ground coffee and warm pastries making his mouth water. He spotted Eponine at a table in the back, waving to him. A familiar-looking man sat next to her, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands, and it took Courfeyrac a moment to place his face. The last time he had seen him, he had been drawing something in a sketchbook, untamed hair curling over his forehead and shadows etching themselves deeply under his sunken eyes. The sketchbook was nowhere in sight now, but his hair was just as wild and his eyes looked just as tired. A cigarette was tucked behind one ear. He smiled easily when Courfeyrac arrived at their table.

“Evening,” he greeted, raising his cup to Courfeyrac before draining the rest of it. It must have been scalding hot, but the man did not bat an eyelid.

“Hi,” Courfeyrac said, sinking into the empty chair next to Eponine. She slid him a latté with a palm leaf design swirled into the foam, and oh, Courfeyrac could have kissed her.

“This is Grantaire,” Eponine said while Courfeyrac took a long sip, downing half the cup in one gulp. “He lives on the floor above us.”

“Marius mentioned that,” Courfeyrac said, setting his coffee down and extending a hand for Grantaire to shake. “Courfeyrac. Nice to meet you.”

“Back at you,” Grantaire said. “Welcome to our illegal little nook of Paris. Well,” he amended, shrugging. “The café part is mostly legal.”

“You met Marius?” Eponine said much too casually. Courfeyrac decided to file away his questions for another time.

“Yeah, he dropped off a change of clothes for me. Seemed nice.”

“Marius is a good guy,” Grantaire confirmed, nodding sagely. “Pretty weird, though. Most human vampire I’ve ever met.”

Courfeyrac noticed, for the first time, that Eponine’s clothes were not her own, either. She had on a white tee shirt with the words _femme fatale_ in gold script across the chest, an olive-green jacket, and light-wash jeans tucked into her boots. Her neck was wrapped in a thin, dark, purple kerchief. The look suited her much better than Courfeyrac’s outfit did, in his opinion.

“Whose clothes?” he said with a nod at her outfit.

“Musichetta. She’s pretty cool.” Eponine turned to Grantaire, who had pulled the cigarette out from behind his ear and was fidgeting with it, twirling it between his fingers like a coin. “Does anyone else live in the apartments upstairs?”

“Sometimes Floréal rents one or two out to students,” Grantaire replied. “But not at the moment. They’re mostly kept vacant, for friends who have nowhere else to go.”

He said _friends_ like it was capitalized, and Courfeyrac understood he meant members of Les Amis de l’ABC.

“Marius is estranged from his crazy, anti-blood capsule family,” he continued with a dry scoff. “Not a penny to his name. So Floréal put him up.”

“And why did Floréal put _you_ up?” Eponine asked, raising her eyebrows. 

Courfeyrac inwardly winced at the incredibly personal question, but Grantaire did not seem to mind. He leaned forward in his seat, making a show of looking around before replying.

“I’m a wanted man,” he said, waggling his eyebrows for effect. Courfeyrac had no idea if he was telling the truth.

“So, these must be my new tenants.” 

Courfeyrac turned in his seat at the new voice. It belonged to a woman who looked to be in her forties, a septum piercing in her nose and her hair gelled in a pixie cut. Something about her seemed distinctly _off,_ somehow, and it slowly dawned on Courfeyrac that she was a half-breed.

“This is Eponine and Courfeyrac,” Grantaire supplied, tucking his cigarette back behind his ear.

Floréal smiled at them and set down a plate laden with croissants, jam, and butter on the table. At Courfeyrac’s hesitant look she said, “On the house, love.”

Eponine did not have to be told twice. She snatched a croissant off the plate and stuffed it into her mouth like she was dying.

“Floréal, you are a national treasure,” Grantaire gushed as he reached for a pastry. Floréal slapped his hand away without missing a beat.

“Not to you, I’m not,” she said, but she ran a hand through his hair to soften the blow.

“Thank you,” Courfeyrac said, trying not to stare. 

He had never seen a half-breed before; they were rare in Paris, driven to live in the country or elsewhere in Europe entirely. Before today, he had not been sure he would have been able to pick them out from a crowd, but Floréal’s mixed blood was immediately apparent. Her elven features were striking, with an edge to them that was undeniably inhuman. Yet her skin had a warm undertone, a life to it that no vampire possessed, and her eyes and teeth did not glimmer preternaturally in the artificial light of the café.

Eponine was not as fascinated as he was, already finished with one croissant and moving on to the next. Courfeyrac finally took a bite and shut his eyes in appreciation. They were perfect, crisp and golden brown on the outside and light as air on the inside.

“Eat up, _cherie,_ there are plenty more where those came from,” Floréal said, and Grantaire was right. She was a national treasure. “Honestly, what were they feeding you in that awful place?”

“Not this,” Eponine said through a mouthful of butter and puff pastry. Floréal laughed.

“Speaking of which,” Courfeyrac said after another sip of coffee. He was loathe to bring it up, but… 

“Eponine and I are out of a job.” He looked into Floréal’s perfectly human eyes. “I don’t know how much rent is, but I don’t think we can—“

Floréal held up a hand to stop him.

“First month’s rent is free for Friends of the People,” she said with a wink. “And if you can’t find work elsewhere, we’re understaffed here at the café.”

The kindness was a little overwhelming. It forced a lump down his throat that threatened to choke him. He had done nothing to deserve this stranger’s hospitality, and he knew it.

Across the table, Eponine’s eyebrows furrowed together, and Courfeyrac could tell she was having similar thoughts. Eponine had never taken kindly to charity, too proud of her hard-earned independence to view it as anything but an insult.

“We don’t want to hurt your business,” Courfeyrac said quickly, before Eponine could protest in a less delicate way.

Floréal laughed incredulously. “Sweetheart, those apartments are empty most of the time. The only thing I would dream of charging you for is water and electricity, and a month’s coverage certainly wouldn’t be a financial burden. Trust me.”

Courfeyrac was surprised before the truth of the statement sank in, and then he marveled that he had not thought about the incongruity before.

The Musain sat in a prime location in Paris, just blocks away from the Sorbonne and the Jardin du Luxembourg. Logistically, there was just no way Floréal could pay rent for half the building’s rooms on a café’s earnings, no matter how successful it was. He had to wonder where her funds were coming from.

“You won’t find a better deal in Paris,” Grantaire told them. “Or anywhere, actually.”

Eponine still looked dubious, like it was all a trick to get them to accept a hand-out. Even if it was, she and Courfeyrac were not in the position to refuse.

“We really appreciate it,” Courfeyrac said sincerely. “This is very generous of you.”

“Too generous,” Eponine agreed. Courfeyrac kicked her under the table. “Thank you,” she added, glowering at him.

“Don’t mention it,” Floréal said, and with a final, affectionate tug at a lock of Grantaire’s hair, she left their table.

Courfeyrac waited until she was out of earshot to reprimand Eponine.

“You could pretend to be grateful,” he said in exasperation. “We’re really lucky to be here.”

“I _am_ grateful,” Eponine retorted, viciously tearing off a piece of her croissant. “But don’t you think it’s weird? How can she afford not to charge rent?”

“It’s none of our business,” Courfeyrac said firmly, even though he silently agreed.

“I don’t know all the details,” Grantaire broke in, tapping his fingers pensively on the table. “But I know Enjolras’s little band of freedom fighters has some wealthy benefactors. The guy who owns this building is a big supporter of the cause.”

“You talk like you’re not one of those ‘freedom fighters,’” Eponine said. “Don’t _you_ believe in the cause?”

Grantaire gave her a wry smile.

“I don’t believe in much,” he said.

They finished their breakfast in amiable silence, and when the plate was clear Courfeyrac’s thoughts returned to the question of finances.

“We can’t just keep comping free meals here every day,” he said with a worried frown. “And we need clothes, and basic household things, like _soap_ …”

“Dude, chill,” Grantaire said. He was doodling on a napkin with a pen he borrowed from the barista. “Trust me, you’re covered.”

“Covered how?” he asked, distressed and frustrated.

“Why don’t you ask Combeferre, since he’s here?” Grantaire suggested, nodding behind him. 

Courfeyrac swiveled in his chair, and sure enough, Combeferre’s tall frame stood in the doorway. He really did cut a stunning figure, cheekbones cut like ice into dark, perfect skin, eyes deep and lovely behind thick-framed glasses, a graceful intelligence about him that made Courfeyrac sit up straighter in his chair. He waved cordially at Floréal before scanning the room. When his eyes landed on their table, a warm smile lit up his handsome face.

“Hey, ‘Ferre,” Grantaire said, getting out of his seat. “Great timing, I was just going to get some fresh air. I think these two have some questions for you.”

He took the cigarette out from behind his ear again and stuck it between his lips, nodded at Courfeyrac and Eponine, then made for the exit.

“Hi,” Courfeyrac said. Eponine snorted behind him.

“Hi,” Combeferre echoed, taking Grantaire’s vacated seat. Courfeyrac felt far too pleased that Combeferre’s eyes stayed mostly on him after giving Eponine a cursory smile.

“Yes, hi, hello, everyone’s greeted everyone,” Eponine said. “How are we going to buy things?”

“Oh, um, that’s actually what I came here to talk to you about,” Combeferre said. He pulled two white envelopes from his coat and set them on the table before them. “This should cover you for a while, until you get settled.”

Courfeyrac picked up his envelope and peered at the colorful fan of bills inside. Eponine cleared her throat, but did not say anything as she stared at the cash, clutching the envelope close to her chest.

Very slowly, Courfeyrac tucked the envelope in his pocket.

“Can I ask… where did this money come from?”

Combeferre studied him, eyes like honey, warmer than any vampire’s eyes had the right to be.

“ABC has friends in high places,” was all he said.

 _Wealthy benefactors._ Of course. Courfeyrac folded his hands on the table and wondered which vampire politicians secretly had a humanitarian side.

“I don’t want your _friends’_ charity,” Eponine bit out, but Courfeyrac could see her resolve was shaky. She was still clasping the envelope in a white-knuckled grip, like the money could evaporate at any moment.

“Believe me, it’s not charity,” Combeferre said calmly. “You two are members now. That means you have access to ABC’s funds. And we have no shortage in that department.”

“What are you, like, the treasurer?” Eponine asked sardonically.

“No, that’s Feuilly. But seriously, all our resources are yours, too, now.” Combeferre nodded at the envelope in her hands. “You can’t be completely reliant on them forever, but for now, consider all your expenses covered.”

Members, resources, benefactors. It all sounded very familiar. Courfeyrac felt like he had been thrust out of one bear trap and into another, cut loose just to be tangled up in something else. There was nothing free about these funds, just as there had been nothing free about his room and board at _l’Accrocheur._

It all felt very claustrophobic. But Courfeyrac had made his decision, and he did not regret it. He would much sooner give his body to a cause he believed in, at the side of people who valued and respected him, than to another nameless stranger between red, silk sheets.

“Jehan is working on getting your new paperwork processed,” Combeferre continued. “For IDs, credit cards, that sort of thing. It’ll take a week or two, though.”

Eponine shrugged and tucked her own envelope away. She had reached the same conclusion Courfeyrac had. “Not like we have any plans.”

She stood then, kissing Courfeyrac’s cheeks and giving Combeferre a rare smile.

“I think I’m going to go shopping,” she said breezily, and with a parting wave, she left the café. Combeferre stared after her, taken aback by the abrupt departure.

“She means ‘thank you,’” Courfeyrac said, bringing the vampire’s attention back to him. He would get used to Eponine, in time. “Really, I… this means a lot. So. Thanks.”

“It’s no trouble,” Combeferre said, mirroring Courfeyrac’s pose and folding his hands on the table. “This is all pretty standard procedure, even for non-members. We give people a stipend, ask them to stay put for a few weeks while we get them in the system, then they leave when they’re ready. Sometimes they don’t stay put, though.” Combeferre frowned. “They don’t trust us to keep them safe and would rather risk it on their own. That’s how we lose people.”

“Eponine won’t disappear,” Courfeyrac said, sensing that was where Combeferre’s mind had turned. “She’s pretty hard-headed, but she’s not stupid.”

Combeferre regarded him silently, concern lining his face.

“…Neither will I,” Courfeyrac said quietly. At that, Combeferre’s lips quirked up seemingly without his approval, and something like fondness blossomed in Courfeyrac’s chest.

“So, what were your plans for the night?” Combeferre asked.

Courfeyrac did not comment on the topic change, ready to part with heavy conversations for a while. His mind wandered to his new apartment, bare and devoid of any personality.

“I was thinking of decorating.”

“Your new place?” 

Courfeyrac nodded and swallowed the last drops of his latté. The caffeine had sufficiently roused him from his stupor, giving him the energy to face this new life with confidence.

“What did you have in mind?” Combeferre asked.

The foam in the bottom of his coffee cup slowly fizzled out, leaving a tiny, cold puddle of caramel-colored liquid behind. Courfeyrac thought about fresh starts, and the temporary nature of coffee foam.

“I was thinking cool colors. A desk, some pictures to hang up.” He smiled at Combeferre. “No curtains.”

Combeferre laughed. The sound seeped into his bones like the drawn-out note of an acoustic guitar.

“No curtains,” Combeferre agreed. “Do you want company? It’s my day off at the lab.”

Perhaps he should not have been so surprised, but it was still fascinating to find that, at the moment, there was nothing Courfeyrac wanted more. 

“Sure.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Hours later, after they had shoved everything into Courfeyrac’s apartment and he had confirmed that, yes, he could most definitely take it from there, Combeferre gripped his hand in parting and left him standing, smiling like an idiot, in the middle of his living room, shopping bags and newly acquired furniture scattered all around him.

Courfeyrac surveyed his hoard as he loosened the scarf around his neck. It would take the rest of the night to get everything in its place, and at least two more trips to the store to buy the things he and Combeferre inevitably forgot.

It was not until halfway through hanging up his new clothes that Courfeyrac realized he had felt no discomfort in shaking Combeferre’s hand. His touch had not inspired an urge to scrub the feeling from his skin, nor had it sparked tremors of anxiety to shiver through his lungs. He did not think of the brothel—hands branding themselves to his skin and burning their marks into his bones, so many that he had lost track of all their lustful sighs, their fingernail indents on his thighs, their teeth splitting his veins open.

Courfeyrac stared at his hand, mapping the lines and wrinkles cutting across his skin. The thin ridges of his fingertips, the dip in the center of his palm. When he thought of Combeferre’s hand pressed to his, all he felt was an immense hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * The fourth _arrondissement_ , or district, of Paris, lies directly across the Seine from the fifth, which is where the Musain is. Enjolras and Combeferre are a pretty walkable distance away.
>   * Chapter title is from "Hunger of the Pine." _Une immense espérance_ = an immense hope.
> 

> 
> Many thanks for reading! I'm on Tumblr at [infinite-mirrors](infinite-mirrors.tumblr.com) and [courfalicious](courfalicious.tumblr.com).


	3. I Want Every Other Freckle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One month after the day Courfeyrac and Eponine first set foot in the Musain, Combeferre takes matters into his own hands. Les Amis have a plan of their own, regarding upcoming elections.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone else watch the presidential debate and get a massive headache every time Trump opened his mouth?? What a shit show. 
> 
> TIME FOR SOME STUFF TO HAPPEN!! Enjoy, friends.

Weeks passed like leaves falling from the trees; imperceptibly at first, drying up one by one and drifting down with a stray breeze, until one day you walk outside and all the trees are bare, and you realize winter has set down its frigid roots, and you barely even noticed the transition.

Courfeyrac and Eponine’s presence did not feel like winter. Or, Courfeyrac’s did not—Eponine had left the Musain shortly after receiving her new documentation from Jehan, saying she appreciated it and everything, but she could not tie herself down to these people or their beliefs so quickly. She needed time, and space, and the knowledge that she did not owe anybody anything. Combeferre understood that. Courfeyrac, it seemed, had expected it, but he had looked sad to see her go all the same.

“It’s not like you won’t see me around,” she had said while wrapped in Courfeyrac’s tight embrace. “I know where you live. Dummy.”

True to her word, Eponine came to the Musain practically every night, chatting with Courfeyrac over coffee or having a drink with Musichetta, Bossuet, and Grantaire in the later hours. But she never went upstairs, unless it was to go to Courfeyrac’s apartment. For his part, Courfeyrac had eased into life at the Musain and ABC like he belonged there. Within a few short weeks, he had become such an integral member of their group, none of them could imagine him ever _not_ being there. Meetings felt livelier. Enjolras smiled more. Jokes and banter flowed more freely than wine. 

It was nothing at all like a barren, unsympathetic winter. Combeferre had never felt the warmth of the sun, but he thought it could not be much different than the warmth of Courfeyrac’s smile.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The little blue pill weighed practically nothing, but it sat heavy in Combeferre’s pocket. He clutched it tightly in his palm as he strode purposefully down the busy street, his coat billowing behind him in the whistling wind.

Joly was waiting for him at his apartment, still in his scrubs from being on-call at the hospital during the day. He let Combeferre inside and held his hand out expectantly, his face unusually grim. Combeferre took the pill out of his pocket and gave it to him.

“Are you sure about this, Combeferre?”

He thought about Courfeyrac and Eponine that first night they arrived, over a month ago. The sickening feeling in his stomach when they revealed their ravaged necks. How was taking a blood capsule any different? He might not have been directly hurting anyone, but he was still consuming a stranger’s blood. Blood human citizens were required, _by law_ , to give. If the donations were voluntary, things might have been different, but...

“I’m sure.”

Joly held the pill up to the light, turning it this way and that. It looked entirely ordinary, like something a person might take for a headache. 

“It’s just the first formula,” he continued. “I’m sure it’ll take a few tries to get it right.”

After that fateful morning, he had not touched his blood capsules for eight days, until Enjolras had realized what he was doing and lectured him about the dangers of starving himself. As if he had not known. He was a biochemist, for Christ’s sake, of _course_ he knew.

But he also knew he could not continue to have the weight of this guilt on his shoulders. There had to be another way.

He had continued to take his capsules, but he had cut his dose in half, and found that he still felt perfectly fine. It made him wonder how little he could take and still remain functional. But he took them, and at work, he would stay until the last person left at the end of the night, pretending to be finishing up with one thing or another; then, alone with a fully functional laboratory, he would pull up the encrypted files on his laptop and get to work.

Joly handed him back the pill—the result of a month's worth of painstaking effort.

“You know I believe in what you’re doing,” Joly said. “But I have no idea what this could do to your body. You’re essentially experimenting on yourself.”

“That’s why I need you to be my monitor.” Combeferre gave him an imploring look. “Please, Joly. A working blood substitute? Think of what it could mean for human rights. For _progress_.”

“You’re starting to sound like Enjolras,” Joly said, still looking uncertain.

“I’ll just do it anyway,” Combeferre said, not as a threat, but because it was true. “With or without your help.”

Joly sighed and rubbed his temples, looking utterly exhausted from his shift, from this conversation, from life in general.

“Yeah, I know you will.” He gave Combeferre a long look. “Alright. But if I tell you it’s getting dangerous, you stop and immediately go back to blood capsules. _Full dosage._ ”

“Of course.”

Satisfied, Joly led him to the kitchen table, where his stethoscope, a thermometer, and a blood pressure cuff lay on the polished surface. He sat Combeferre down and took his vitals, writing the figures down on a clipboard, his lips pursed in resignation. Lastly, he took a blood sample. When he was done, he got a glass of water from the sink and set it before Combeferre.

“Take the pill now, then come see me tomorrow, same time. Keep a log of any changes you feel—physical, emotional, whatever. Anything that’s not normal for you.”

Combeferre looked at the pill, small and innocuous in his hand. His heart thudded in his chest. He put the pill in his mouth and took a big gulp of water to swallow it down.

Joly only had five hours until his next shift, so he ushered Combeferre out the door, looking apologetic but ready to be done with the entire business so he could get some sleep.

“While you’re doing these… trials,” he said delicately, his hand on the door frame. “You won’t be taking any blood capsules, will you?”

He phrased it like it was a statement, already knowing the answer and very much disapproving of it. 

“That’s the point, isn’t it?”

Combeferre waved goodbye to Joly and stepped out into the night.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Courfeyrac’s neck was almost entirely healed. There were still a few fading bruises here and there, yellow patches on otherwise tan skin, and the more messy bites had scarred over, leaving little pink marks in places; but other than that, he looked completely healthy, his shoulder pressed against Enjolras’s as they examined The Map spread out on the table.

Les Amis were gathered in their headquarters at the Musain, as usual, drinks in their hands and relaxed smiles on their faces. One of their more informal meetings, then.

Courfeyrac was saying something to Enjolras, but when Combeferre walked in, he turned and gave him a smile that made Combeferre think of fresh snow. Maybe the winter analogy had not been so far off the mark, after all.

The shadows under Courfeyrac’s eyes were gone. His hair had a healthy shine to it. His eyes were clear and open in a way they had not been at the brothel, not by a long shot. God, Combeferre wanted him, more than he had ever wanted anyone before. His skin looked so soft and pliant. Combeferre could not help but wonder what it tasted like.

He frowned. That was the problem, wasn’t it? After being used and handled by vampires for so long, would Courfeyrac really want another one in his life?

Of course, it was a different situation with Combeferre. He did not just want to satisfy some dark, shameful desire with a beautiful stranger; he actually _liked_ Courfeyrac, as a person, as a _friend_. He respected him. And he would never dream of violating him in the way scores of his less savory clients had.

But did that matter? Combeferre looked at his almost-healed neck again. He would not have blamed Courfeyrac if he never wanted to even be in the same _room_ with another vampire for the rest of his life.

“National Assembly elections are coming up,” Enjolras said by way of greeting, an excited glimmer in his eyes. He clasped Combeferre’s hand and pulled him into the center of the gathering with another hand on his shoulder. “What do you think of doing a smear campaign?”

“Against which party?”

Feuilly snorted. “Uh, all of them?”

“Do you know the number of left party candidates this election?” Musichetta said grimly. “ _Seven._ ”

“The rest have dropped off the ballot,” Bossuet said. “Presumably after being threatened, bought off, or both.”

“The few leftist candidates in the running aren’t even pro-human rights,” Jehan said with a sigh. “They’re only technically in the left because of their economic policies.”

“In other words,” Grantaire said cheerfully. “We’re utterly fucked.”

Combeferre made a noncommittal noise and looked down at The Map. He had already known all of this, and had been wondering when Enjolras would decide to make a move. And what, exactly, that move would be.

“All monuments,” he observed, nodding at the points on the map marked with little game pieces—an eclectic mix of Monopoly, Clue, Chess, and a few he did not recognize. “What were you planning?”

“Nothing too serious,” Enjolras said, shrugging nonchalantly. “We’ll start with posters, _everywhere_. And Grantaire can help us set up some… thought-provoking art installments at our great city’s monuments.”

“I got the magic touch,” Grantaire said flatly, and Enjolras grinned, either not detecting the sarcastic tone or choosing to ignore it.

“Damn right you do,” he said proudly, and Grantaire’s ears turned pink. “And if this all goes well, we could end it with a protest at the Palais Bourbon on election day.”

He handed Combeferre half a dozen flyers, all of which had either bold-type messages or political cartoons in Grantaire’s signature style. One depicted a vampire biting the neck of Marianne, the symbol of the Republic, her bonnet flying off her head as she screamed in terror. Another showed the prime minister defecating on the constitution. Combeferre tried and failed to suppress his amused smile.

“Just exposing the State for what it really is,” Courfeyrac said. “A fucking joke.”

“Yeah, a real shitty one,” Bossuet said, and was met snorts and fond groans.

“You know I’m all for a good smear campaign,” Combeferre said, handing the flyers back to Enjolras. “But isn’t mud-slinging a little… juvenile? What will it accomplish?”

“It makes them seem less powerful,” Enjolras said confidently. “Like Courfeyrac said, a joke. It empowers the people. Plus, it’s funny.”

Courfeyrac high-fived Grantaire, and Combeferre smiled again.

“Fair enough,” he allowed. “And these, er, ‘art installments?’”

“Oh, just. Statues, murals, that sort of thing,” Grantaire said.

Combeferre raised an eyebrow.

“Enjolras, defacing the Arc de Triomphe?” he said in mock astonishment. “Where is your patriotism?”

Scattered laughter rippled through the room, and Enjolras’s mouth twisted in disdain.

“An imperialistic eyesore for a tyrant with an over-inflated ego,” he said.

“Yeah, _fuck_ Napoleon,” Bahorel added, dramatically slamming his fist on the table. Courfeyrac and Jehan’s giggling spiraled out of control.

“But seriously, Enj,” Courfeyrac said when he had settled down. “How are we going to pull off graffiti-ing the Eiffel Tower?”

“We’re not going to graffiti the Eiffel Tower, that’s ridiculous,” Enjolras said. “We’re going to graffiti the Louvre.”

“Oh my god,” Combeferre said.

“You know what I mean. How will we pull off vandalizing the country’s most prized historic monuments without getting caught?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” Enjolras said flippantly, like he was discussing what groceries to buy. Combeferre could tell he already had a plan; in all likelihood, he had already set it in motion. Enjolras was in possession of many strings, and he was not afraid to pull them.

“For now, let’s focus on getting these flyers out there,” Enjolras continued. “Meet back here tomorrow, two hours before dawn. We’ll partner up and divide the districts among ourselves.”

With that, the meeting was adjourned. The Map was cleared away, scarves and half-empty drinks were grabbed, and bodies began shuffling toward the stairs. Most would linger downstairs and have another drink or a cup of coffee, or just to mingle. Les Amis were more than a group of humanitarians, after all—they were, first and foremost, friends.

Courfeyrac nudged his arm and gave him a charming, lopsided grin.

“Wanna be partners?” he asked.

 _In more ways than one_ , was his immediate response, but he bit it back in favor of a less embarrassing one.

“Of course.”

Courfeyrac beamed like it was the best thing he had heard all day, and Combeferre grew flustered despite himself.

“Great! I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Oh,” Combeferre stumbled. “You’re not heading downstairs with everyone?”

“Actually, Jehan and I are going to hang out for a bit,” Courfeyrac said, squeezing Combeferre’s arm in parting. Combeferre noticed, for the first time, that Jehan had not headed toward the stairwell along with everyone else. They stood off to the side, scrolling through something on their phone, but they looked up when Courfeyrac mentioned them.

“We’re going to do tarot readings,” they said serenely. 

“Oh,” Combeferre said again, trying not to sound disappointed. “Okay, well. Have fun?”

“Tarot is very serious business, Combeferre,” Courfeyrac said slyly.

The two left for Courfeyrac’s apartment, and Combeferre went downstairs to join the others. He wondered when Courfeyrac and Jehan had started hanging out outside of ABC, selfishly hoping it was platonic and instantly feeling guilty for it. Courfeyrac was free to see anyone he wanted, at any capacity he chose. 

That did not stop him from feeling absurdly jealous.

He thought about the way Courfeyrac said his name, and how much he rather liked it. Then he forced himself to shut away unwanted thoughts and emotions and went to have a round of drinks with his friends.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

They were somewhere in the Saint-Lambert quarter, in the fifteenth arrondissement, taping flyers to every pole and exposed wall they could find. Combeferre was trying not to read too much into Courfeyrac asking him to be his partner for the project, telling himself it was because he knew him better than the others. They had become good friends over the past month, bonded over their experience at the brothel. Saving each other’s lives had a way of establishing trust in most relationships.

Then again, just about everyone had taken to Courfeyrac pretty quickly. And why wouldn’t they? He was kind and funny, always saying the right thing at the right time in a way that still seemed genuine. He had become fast friends with Les Amis, with the staff at the Musain, and with the café’s regular customers, so effortlessly it was like he was made for socialization. Combeferre was probably fooling himself in thinking their bond was special.

“How are things at the café?” he asked Courfeyrac. They waited for a lone car to pass before plastering a flyer to the wall.

It was close enough to daybreak that the streets were fairly clear, but not completely deserted. Courfeyrac had asked, during the meeting earlier that night, why they didn’t just execute the mission in the daytime; ABC had enough human members to cover the same amount of ground, if they really hurried, and no humans on the street would have reported them.

“For protection,” Feuilly had explained. “A vampire partner to every human. There are less cops on patrol in the daytime, but they’re still out there, and you need someone to get you out if one decides to glamour you.”

They had made the mistake before. Only about a third of the police force had the day shift, helmets and body armor protecting them from the sun’s rays; but even with their eyes hidden behind tinted glass, vampires still had the ability to glamour a human they made eye contact with. Only the range was impacted, shrinking down to about ten meters.

Bahorel had been three meters away when he was glamoured. It had taken a lot of bribing and bargaining to get him out of holding, and when they had finally gotten him back, he had been sporting a black eye and a swollen lip. Bahorel had only grinned and said he was glad it had been him—he had been itching for a fight, anyway.

So there they were, ducking through alleys and behind corners whenever a car or pedestrian passed—or worse, an officer on patrol. Courfeyrac told Combeferre all about his shift that night at the Musain, all the wacky customer stories and order mix-ups and minor disasters. Combeferre loved listening to him talk. His gestures were open and candid, a far cry from when he had first arrived at ABC, shut off and distant. It was like watching a flower bloom.

“What about your night at the lab?” Courfeyrac asked him. “I keep forgetting to ask what it is you even _do_. Mix colorful chemicals in vials and write things down on clipboards? Have mice run through mazes for cheese?”

“Yep, you pretty much covered it. Just your average scientist, doing very important Science.”

Courfeyrac laughed and shoved him playfully, and Combeferre’s stomach did a little somersault.

“We’re actually trying to develop a tolerance serum for the sun. For vampires, of course.”

“Like super sunscreen?”

Combeferre smiled fondly. “More like a hormone you could take. It would help with light and heat sensitivity, but we’d still have to put on sunscreen and layered clothing for topical protection.”

Courfeyrac’s expression turned a little strained. He looked down at the flyers in his hands.

“Vampires out at all hours, huh?”

Combeferre frowned. For many humans, daylight was a reprieve; a time to sigh out the night’s tension and relax outside, soak up the vitamin D they needed to be healthy. The number of cops on patrol was minor, and most of them were too tired and wary of the sun to do their jobs adequately. The businesses that stayed open were run by humans. Daylight was _safe_.

“It’s still in the research stage,” Combeferre said, hoping to sound reassuring. “It’ll be a while before it’s developed, tested, and approved. And then even longer to become commonly used.”

By then, hopefully, things would be different. Combeferre believed in the goodness in people, believed they were always moving toward a better future. He believed peace and equality were on the horizon.

Courfeyrac shot him a small smile, appreciating the effort. Combeferre did not tell him about the little blue pill he had taken. 

“So, what did your tarot cards tell you?” he asked, grasping for a topic change.

Courfeyrac looked surprised, then laughed.

“Jehan’s reading? Nothing I don’t already know,” he said mysteriously.

“Yeah?” Combeferre stopped to tape up another flyer. “Is that good or bad?”

Courfeyrac hummed thoughtfully. "Good, I think. We'll see."

“Hey, you there!”

Combeferre froze. He and Courfeyrac exchanged quick, wide-eyed looks before turning around. A bright light flashed in Combeferre’s face, then Courfeyrac’s, where it paused. Combeferre took in the badge, the navy uniform, and the stoic, disapproving expression on the vampire’s face, and thought, _shit._

“Stop right there,” the officer said, striding down the street toward them.

How had they not seen him? Combeferre berated himself for getting caught up in his conversation with Courfeyrac—for getting distracted by him, if he was being honest. They should have seen the cop coming from blocks away. He was turning to run when he threw a glance in Courfeyrac’s direction and noticed his vacant stare, eyes glazed over in a telling way that had Combeferre cursing the officer in his head. The bastard had glamoured him.

“Courfeyrac,” he barked, grabbing him by the arm. No effect.

Combeferre physically put himself between Courfeyrac and the advancing officer, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him.

“Courf, come on, snap out of it!”

Courfeyrac blinked and his eyes, mercifully, refocused. 

Combeferre grabbed his hand and ran.

Flyers went sailing out of their hands, fluttering like a flock of birds behind them as they sprinted down the street. Combeferre swiveled his head around, taking in street signs to try to get a clear map of where they were in his head. They were heading southeast on Rue des Favorites, coming up to a traffic circle. Combeferre knew there was a safe house just a few streets away, if they could only lose the cop and ensure they would not be followed.

The officer looked to be nearly twice their age, but he was surprisingly fit, keeping pace and not looking like he was going to fall behind any time soon. The sound of his feet pounding on the pavement behind them matched Combeferre’s pulse thudding in his ears. It lit a fire under his feet and had him pumping his legs to go faster, pulling Courfeyrac behind him. 

Once they spilled out onto the main street and came upon the traffic circle, there were significantly more cars on the road, people racing to beat the sunrise and get home while the city was still shrouded in shadows.

Combeferre did not hesitate. He ran, Courfeyrac in tow, directly into traffic.

Horns blared and tires screeched, and Courfeyrac shouted his name in alarm, but Combeferre did not stop until he had raced through the middle of the traffic circle and emerged on the other side. He paused for breath then, at the mouth of Rue Saint-Amand, and looked over his shoulder. Cars were still honking angrily at them, but the flow of traffic had resumed. He could not see the officer.

To be safe, they took a long, indirect route to the safe house, keeping a fast pace the entire way. They cut through a narrow, arterial street halfway down Rue Saint-Amand, headed west for a few blocks, then doubled back. By the time they made it to the safe house, a small, inconspicuous building on Rue Thiboumery, the sky had lightened to a cold gray, and there was no chance the officer’s shift had not ended. Combeferre spared a moment to be grateful it was an overcast day; the brightness was nearly unbearable, but at least there was no direct sunlight to irritate his skin.

He fished a key out of his pocket and let them inside the ivy-covered building. All the windows on the street were barred, and all the doors were gated, which made their security measures blend right in. Once inside, he quickly punched a code into the box by the door, locking them down, and then they stood in the foyer for a long minute, catching their breath.

“Are you okay?” he asked Courfeyrac. His heart was still hammering in his chest, adrenaline making him shaky and restless. They locked eyes in the dark hallway, and the rest of Combeferre’s words died in his throat when he took in Courfeyrac’s appearance. His cheeks were flushed and his hair was disheveled. His scarf was gone, lost in the chase. They stared at each other in silence for several agonizing seconds.

Then Courfeyrac grabbed him by the front of his jacket and crushed their lips together.

Combeferre wasted no time in responding to the kiss. He wrapped an arm around Courfeyrac’s waist and buried his other hand in his hair. _Finally,_ he thought. _Finally._ And then he didn't think anymore.

Courfeyrac’s hands slid up his chest and wrapped themselves around his neck. His lips were so soft, so malleable under his own, parting eagerly for his tongue. Combeferre backed him against the wall and thoroughly mapped his mouth while sneaking his hand under his shirt, seeking skin.

He noted what made Courfeyrac sigh, and what made him let out a quiet moan, and what made him shiver in delight. Every response made Combeferre want to get lost in him, to burrow deeper until he reached the expanse of heat and stardust inside him, the beautiful microcosm that lay beneath the surface. 

It seemed like ages and no time at all when they finally broke apart, gasping into the small space between them, bodies still glued together.

(And God, did they fit well together, like pieces of a puzzle, slotted perfectly in place to make a complete whole.)

Courfeyrac peered up at him under his eyelashes. His lips were shiny and swollen, his eyes large and dark and impossibly vast. They pierced Combeferre in place and sent sparks of heat shooting to his groin. Combeferre ran a finger along his lower lip, watching his mouth fall open invitingly. He was incapable of being glamoured, but he felt like he was, in this moment, completely entranced by Courfeyrac’s breath on his skin. A bomb could have gone off and he would not have noticed.

Courfeyrac leaned back in for a swift kiss, then another, and another, like he couldn’t help himself. Combeferre knew the feeling. He kissed along Courfeyrac’s chin and jaw, tracing circles on his hip bone with his thumb. A kiss at his hair line. A kiss just under his ear. A kiss to his neck—

Courfeyrac abruptly shoved him away, palms pressed flatly to his chest. The sudden chasm was cold and cavernous between them. It took Combeferre a second to process what had happened, to adjust to the emptiness again. 

The glimpse he had gotten of the world behind Courfeyrac’s eyes was gone, shut behind a stony expression. It clicked for Combeferre a moment later.

“No, Courf,” he said quickly, holding his hands up in surrender. “I wasn’t going to… I wouldn’t, I would never. I’m sorry.”

The pressure against his chest lessened, and Courfeyrac’s hands fell to his sides as he looked away. He took a deep, steadying breath and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I know,” Courfeyrac said quietly.

But the damage was done. Combeferre closed his eyes, mentally kicking himself. He had gotten swept up in the moment and forgotten the crucial details, the circumstances under which Courfeyrac had entered his life in the first place. Good intentions or not, he had betrayed Courfeyrac’s trust.

A soft touch to his arm made him open his eyes. Courfeyrac looked up at him wistfully, a small, sad smile etched onto his lips. He slowly leaned up and kissed Combeferre on the cheek.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” he murmured.

He slipped around Combeferre and left to venture further into the silent house, leaving Combeferre to stand there and contemplate the morning’s events. He could still feel the ghost of Courfeyrac’s warmth against him, could still taste the sweetness of his mouth. When he finally forced his feet to move and find a bed to rest in, he could feel Courfeyrac’s soft, soft lips lingering on his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Time for a _**super condensed**_ lesson in French politics!! 
>   * France has a weird political system where they have both a parliament and a president/executive branch (called the "government"). The legislative branch is made up of the National Assembly and the Senate, and they vote on bills proposed by the government, although the National Assembly gets the last word if there's a disagreement. Elections for the National Assembly are held every five years, not too long after presidential elections, if I'm not mistaken. The National Assembly consists of over 500 deputies, so only seven left-wing candidates is obviously ridiculous.
>   * Like in the States, left is synonymous with liberal, and right is conservative. _Unlike_ the US, France has way more political parties, and different ones are prominent in each election. But the tendency to default to a two-party majority remains the same. The president can dissolve the National Assembly and call for new elections if there's too much disagreement between the branches, but the National Assembly can force the executive branch to dissolve, too, so the government tends to have the same political leanings as the National Assembly majority. It's a 'get shit done or get out' kind of system.
>   * Palais Bourbon is the seat of the National Assembly.
>   * Finally, all those lessons in French class paid off.
>   * Hi I'm Monika and I abuse Google Maps!!
>   * If anyone was curious, [here's](https://www.google.com/maps/place/17+Rue+Thiboumery,+75015+Paris,+France/@48.8347035,2.302595,16.8z/data=!4m13!1m7!3m6!1s0x47e67047473a3bb5:0xfcc41349bd86da03!2s17+Rue+Thiboumery,+75015+Paris,+France!3b1!8m2!3d48.8357394!4d2.3044701!3m4!1s0x47e67047473a3bb5:0xfcc41349bd86da03!8m2!3d48.8357394!4d2.3044701!6m1!1e1) the exact location of their safe house.
>   * GUESS WHO THE COP IIISSSSS
>   * ["Hey, you there!"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dyWISTC9Byg)
> 

> 
> Blue balls strike again! Sorry y'all. Things will get heated soon, I promise. Come say hi to me on tumblr at [infinite-mirrors](infinite-mirrors.tumblr.com) and [courfalicious](courfalicious.tumblr.com)!


	4. Hunger of the Pine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their kiss at the safe house, everything has undeniably changed for Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac just hopes they actually get around to talking about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... I graduated. Guys. I have a Bachelor's degree. _What??_ To celebrate, and to thank you for your endless patience with my erratic updates, I'm posting a double update for you! Nearly 10,000 words of pure self-indulgence for you to enjoy. Chapter 5 will go up shortly after this is posted. Enjoy, and happy weekend!
> 
> The chapter title, as always, is taken from Alt-J, this time from their song of the same title.

Courfeyrac woke up fairly early, for him. Sunset was still at least three hours away, although the day was so overcast they wouldn’t have to wait until then to leave the safe house. It was dark enough outside that Combeferre would be able to make the trip back without much discomfort.

Combeferre. The prospect of seeing him again made Courfeyrac’s stomach twist nervously. He felt foolish for pushing him away the other night. Foolish, and more than a little embarrassed. Of course Combeferre would never hurt him in that way. He knew that. He trusted Combeferre, felt safe around him.

At least, he had thought he did.

But when Combeferre’s lips had brushed against his neck, Courfeyrac’s reaction had been immediate. Visceral. All he had been feeling, all the heat and desire and _good_ , so good, had fled him in an instant, and he had collapsed in on himself like a feeble house of cards.

Was it just a one-time slip because he had been caught off-guard? Or was he more broken than he had thought?

God, he hated this. He hated this feeling, this aching vulnerability that made him want to hide and cry and break things. He wished he could reach inside himself and carve it out, this poison, this cancerous thing, and scrub the walls of his consciousness clean until he was blissfully hollow.

He just wanted his relationship with Combeferre to be simple.

And how would Combeferre see him now, anyway, after that episode? Would he feel too guilty to continue their whatever-it-was, the foreign territory they had been on the cusp of stepping into? He would blame himself, no doubt, even though he had done nothing wrong and it was entirely Courfeyrac’s problem. Courfeyrac’s demons that had chosen to bare their teeth.

Would Combeferre still even want him?

Why did it matter so much if he did?

Courfeyrac swallowed thickly, scrubbed his hands over his face and resolutely did not follow that line of thinking.

When he finally scraped together enough courage to leave the room, Courfeyrac found Combeferre sitting at the small table in the kitchen, phone in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. When he saw Courfeyrac, he went still.

Great.

Courfeyrac did his best to ignore the fantastically awkward atmosphere—and the way Combeferre was staring at him like he was a wild animal that could be spooked at any moment—and walked casually up to the table, snatching the cup out of Combeferre’s hand and taking a sip.

He spared a grimace at the total lack of anything in the coffee, leaning up against the table and schooling his expression into one of neutral interest.

“So, what’s the news?” he said, nodding at the phone in Combeferre’s hand. His other hand was still raised, clutching at the empty space where his coffee had been.

Combeferre stared at him a moment longer before dropping his hand to the table.

“Uh, well,” he said, clearing his throat. “The others were pretty successful in getting the flyers everywhere. No one else had a run-in with a cop like we did.”

“Nothing like a good, old fashioned, chase through the streets at dawn to get the blood pumping, right?” Courfeyrac said, and immediately realized how unfortunate his phrasing was. To his credit, Combeferre looked only mildly uncomfortable.

“Right… Anyway,” Combeferre said, focusing on his phone. So they weren’t going to talk about it, then. “It’s already all over mainstream media. Want to guess what they’re saying?”

“Hmm.” Courfeyrac tapped his chin in faux contemplation. “A random act of vandalism, childish and ineffective, likely the work of a few disorganized, low-brow vigilantes with too much time on their hands… Did I get it all?”

“You forgot ‘only succeeding in wasting tax money to clean up their mess,’” Combeferre said.

“Ahh, so close.”

“Social media, on the other hand, unanimously agrees it was ABC,” Combeferre continued, pulling up a page on his phone. “ _’The State’s so desperate to cover up civil unrest they’re calling thousands of flyers paving the streets like the fucking Yellow Brick Road a “random act of vigilantism.” ABC doing God’s work in Paris.’_ Hashtag-the-people-will-rise, hashtag-I’m-with-friends, hashtag-know-your-ABC’s. Prayer hands emoji, laughing emoji, one hundred emoji, check emoji, Eiffel Tower emoji.”

Courfeyrac laughed. “Did Bahorel write that?”

“No, but he’s the one who sent it to me.”

“Well, at least Twitter knows what’s up.”

Combeferre uttered a weak chuckle and set down his phone in favor of pushing his glasses up to rub his eyes. Courfeyrac frowned and studied him more carefully for the first time that evening. He was slouched forward in his seat, elbows braced against the table; his hair wasn’t perfectly gelled back like usual, little strands curling at his hairline, and the top two buttons of his shirt were left unbuttoned under his sweater. Small details, but Combeferre always looked so put together that the effect was jarring.

He had probably just stayed up late checking in with the others, or running crucial errands, or something. Still, a small prickle of worry wormed its way into Courfeyrac’s chest.

“You okay, ‘Ferre?” he asked, placing a cautious hand on his shoulder.

Combeferre flinched so hard at the contact he spilled a little coffee on the table. Startled, Courfeyrac hastily withdrew his hand and uttered an apology.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Combeferre said quickly, grabbing Courfeyrac’s hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I’m just tired, and… distracted.”

Courfeyrac’s heart rate picked up at that. Maybe they were going to talk about what had happened, after all.

“Distracted by what?”

Combeferre looked away.

“Just a project Joly and I are working on.” Courfeyrac’s heart sank. _Oh._ “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

Combeferre took a long sip of his coffee, and Courfeyrac, observing the pinch between his eyebrows, his guarded eyes, and the barely-there tremor in his hand, knew he was lying.

“Okay.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

They didn’t talk about the kiss. They _wouldn’t_ talk about the kiss. Courfeyrac accepted this with as much grace as he could muster, which was not very much.

“He’s just being the same dorky, polite, funny, smart, beautiful _friend_ he’s been from the start,” he whined to Jehan from where he was sprawled out on his living room floor. “It’s like nothing ever happened!”

Jehan, in their infinite patience, hummed thoughtfully in response—as if Courfeyrac hadn’t vocalized the same complaint at least three times in the last half hour.

“If it’s bothering you so much, why don’t you bring it up yourself?” they suggested, carefully selecting another card from the elaborate deck spread out before them. They set it gingerly next to the other two cards lying face-down on the floor between them and Courfeyrac.

“Because he had the perfect opportunity to bring it up, but he didn’t.” Courfeyrac heaved a dramatic sigh and dragged himself into a sitting position. “Which means he doesn’t want to talk about it. We’re ignoring it. It was a mistake.”

Jehan ran their fingers over the rest of the deck with a feather-light touch, seeking out the next card. The right one would make itself known, somehow… Tingling? Heat? A tiny voice in Jehan’s head saying, ‘here, over here, pick me’? Courfeyrac didn’t question it too hard. Jehan’s readings were always disturbingly accurate.

“Just because he avoided the topic that _one_ time doesn’t mean he thinks it was a mistake,” Jehan said reasonably. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”

“Yeah, I know that’s, like, the logical conclusion,” Courfeyrac said, raking his fingers through his hair in frustration. “But Combeferre makes me overthink things so much, dude. Like, does he think I’d freak out again if he tried anything? Does he _want_ to try anything again? Does he just want to stick to the friend thing? Does he think I’m repulsed by him?”

“You know how you can find out the answers to all those questions?” Jehan said, gathering up the deck and setting it aside so just the four cards were between them. Courfeyrac looked at them.

“Ask the cards?”

“No, ask _Combeferre._ ”

“…I’d rather ask the cards.”

Jehan shook their head in defeat and turned the first card over. A woman sat in profile on a throne, holding a sword aloft in one hand and reaching out with the other. As with all the other cards in Jehan’s tarot deck, it was beautifully designed, with twisting, overlapping vines and flowers around the borders; the woman’s robes and crown had tiny, intricate details that were outlined in silver. The sword itself was entirely made in the metallic material, glinting when Jehan turned the card over.

“Ah, the Queen of Swords.” Jehan nodded as if this made perfect sense. They closed their eyes and drummed their fingers together in contemplation. “This card is telling you to stop being a tool and get your shit together.”

Courfeyrac gave Jehan a skeptical look. “Are you patronizing me?”

“No, the cards are patronizing you,” Jehan replied placidly. 

Courfeyrac groaned and lay back down on the floor. It was nice down there. Quiet. Stable. A little dusty, but nothing was perfect.

“Do you want to know what the rest of the cards are?” Jehan asked gently.

“Are they going to sass me again?”

“Probably.”

“Pass.”

Jehan smiled and scooped up the remaining cards, shuffling them back into the deck.

“Are you working tonight?”

“Closing shift.” Courfeyrac sneezed and rubbed his itchy nose. He really needed to clean the floor. “Why?”

Jehan rolled to their feet and stepped over Courfeyrac on the way to the kitchen, nudging him in the side with their big toe as they went. “My boyfriend’s coming by the café.”

Courfeyrac sat up so quickly he made himself dizzy.

“The boyfriend you’ve refused to tell me anything about and who I’m half convinced is some kind of government spy because of the shroud of secrecy you’ve thrown over him?” he demanded, tugging on Jehan’s pinstripe yoga pants. “ _That_ boyfriend?”

“There is no 'shroud of secrecy,' don’t hyperbolize,” Jehan said with the same serenity they always did. “More like a… curtain of privacy.”

Courfeyrac pinched his face into an expression he hoped would sufficiently convey ‘that’s the same fucking thing and you insult my intelligence by pretending otherwise’ but also ‘shut the fuck up’ and a little bit of ‘you’ve got more hyperbole in one daisy patterned sock than I do in my entire person you pastel-loving poetic yogi bastard.’

Jehan took one look at his face and visibly fought back a laugh, shaking their leg to free themselves of Courfeyrac’s grip on their hideous pants.

“But yes, the curtain comes off tonight,” they said. 

“Shroud,” Courfeyrac said automatically, watching them measure out tea leaves into the pot. Jehan sprinkled some of the leaves onto his head without any hesitation.

“Anyway,” Jehan said, ignoring Courfeyrac’s affronted sputtering about his hair. “Talk to Combeferre.”

Courfeyrac shook what he hoped were the last bits of tea leaves out of his hair and sighed. More reasons to clean the floor.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, and he knew he was pouting but whatever. “But if the cards lied to me about him that one time I’m blaming you.”

“They weren’t lying,” Jehan said as they poured the tea. “You idiots are just making it more complicated than it needs to be.”

“I feel like I should be insulted,” Courfeyrac said, finally standing up and brushing the dust off his clothes. “But I hope you’re right.”

Jehan smiled brightly and handed him his tea. 

“You really need to clean the floor,” they said, eyeing the dust bunny still clinging to Courfeyrac’s sleeve.

“You really need to burn those pants.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Joly snapped the log book shut and tossed it onto the table, where Combeferre sat staring down the blood capsule in his hand.

“Just take it, ‘Ferre,” Joly said with a frown. “It’ll get you feeling normal again.”

Nausea curled in Combeferre’s stomach, but he couldn’t tell if it was from the idea of taking the capsule or a side-effect of starving himself.

“I already have another formula ready to try,” he protested, and the line between Joly’s eyebrows grew more pronounced. He continued anyway. “If I don’t have any blood beforehand the effects will be apparent much faster.”

“You’ve already gone five days without taking a blood capsule,” Joly said, crossing his arms. “And don’t think I don’t know about you cutting your dose in half when you _were_ taking them. If anything, I should make you take two.”

“You know I had to keep taking the pill to make sure what I was feeling were the only effects, and not side effects of a working product,” Combeferre reminded him. “That means a longer trial period.”

“I understand that,” Joly said grudgingly. “But that doesn’t mean I like it.”

“I’m fine, Joly,” Combeferre insisted. “All I got was a headache, a little fatigue, some nausea…”

“Hunger pains?” Joly said, raising a challenging eyebrow. Combeferre silently looked away. “I thought so. Look, this isn’t just about you and how much you’re willing to put your body through.”

Joly sat down heavily across from him and waited until Combeferre met his eyes. 

“Setting aside the very real possibility that next time, the side effects might not be so mild… Every day you go without blood, you are putting the humans around you in danger,” he said slowly. “Me, Feuilly, Courfeyrac—“

“I would never hurt anyone,” Combeferre snapped, and winced at the edge in his own voice. Joly waited while he took a few deep breaths. His nerves really had been frayed by the experiment, and this was only the first trial. He needed to get a hold of himself if he was to continue doing this.

“Sorry,” he said, with significantly less hostility. “I… Look, I know the risk I’m taking and the damage it’s doing, but I wouldn’t – I know myself, Joly.” He tried to inject as much conviction into his words as he could as he leaned over the table. “If I ever feel out of control, even for a second, I’ll remove myself from any humans around and take a double—a _triple_ dose of blood capsules. I swear to you.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Joly’s mouth was a tight line, his gaze flickering between Combeferre’s eyes. Combeferre thought of Courfeyrac’s dimpled smile and the scars on his neck. He thought of the way Courfeyrac looked at him that other night, the caution and distrust in his eyes.

“I would die before I hurt anyone,” he said roughly. _Before I hurt him._

Joly let out a slow breath and nodded. He pushed the log book back toward Combeferre with one finger.

“Half a dose,” he said, and continued even as Combeferre opened his mouth to protest. “Do not argue with me, Combeferre. Half a dose, right now, then take the new pill immediately after.”

Combeferre figured that was the best he was going to get, so he split open the capsule and poured half of the red powder into his mouth, chasing the bitter taste down with water. He fought down a shudder at the concentrated taste – like swallowing sanded down metal – then rummaged through his coat pocket and produced a tiny blue pill, identical to its predecessor but containing a slight variant on the formula. The chances that he would be successful on the second try were probably as small as the pill itself, but Combeferre still sent a prayer up to anyone who would listen that he would at least see some improvement. Not because he particularly cared about the ill effects on his health, or needed the process to speed up for any discernable reason. 

He just wanted Courfeyrac to feel safe in his arms. He wanted to be worthy of him. As long as he had a reliance on blood, no matter its form, he was no different than any of the morally-bankrupt vampires getting their fix at _l’Accrocheur_ every night.

“Cheers,” he said, and tipped the pill back.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Courfeyrac hummed along to the song playing overhead as he cleaned off a table, piling empty glasses onto a tray and wiping the polished wood surface down with a rag. 

“Have a good morning!” he called to the departing customers, a group of students swaddling themselves in coats and hats before stepping out into the street. They waved cheerily at him, cheeks rosy with the glow of alcohol and the elation of finishing a grueling exam earlier that night. 

By all accounts, it was a slow, Tuesday morning. Courfeyrac, very much used to holding odd hours, usually took closing shifts at the Musain. Aside from the weekends, the bar did not get much action on those shifts, being a more popular stop for early evening coffee and baked goods, but Courfeyrac found he liked the quiet of weekday mornings. He would serve pints of beer to the regulars, occasionally pour a few rounds of shots to students celebrating one thing or another, and spend most of his shift talking to Grantaire or Feuilly or Marius and preparing the bar for closing. He rarely worked with anyone, because more than one person was hardly needed on weekdays, which suited him just fine. The easy pace of the work let him relax and get to know the customers, peer over Grantaire’s shoulder as he doodled on napkins and debate global politics and conspiracy theories with Feuilly.

He liked his job. A novelty, and a luxury he hadn’t ever dared hope for. 

On this particular closing shift, Enjolras, Feuilly, Jehan, and Grantaire were seated at the counter, and Courfeyrac took breaks between sweeping and wiping down the coffee machines to talk to them. 

“Enjolras,” he said as he refilled their drinks. “Enjy. Enj. The Enjinator. Enjiana Jones—“

“Courfeyrac, I swear to God—“

“No, please, I want to hear how many more he can come up with,” Feuilly joked.

“Enjelina Jolie,” Courfeyrac said, and Enjolras sighed deeply. “You’re telling me, right now, to my face, that you’ve _never_ seen _The Breakfast Club_?”

“I don’t see why that’s such a big deal,” Enjolras said defensively, and Grantaire groaned like he had stuck a knife in his heart. 

“It’s iconic!” Grantaire said, and Courfeyrac nodded vigorously in agreement. “A defining moment in pop culture!”

“Tell me you’ve seen _Pulp Fiction_ ,” Courfeyrac said. Enjolras actually _pouted_ and looked away. 

“ _Back to the Future? Jurassic Park? Legally Blonde?_ Anything with Audrey Hepburn or Marilyn Monroe?”

With each movie title Enjolras seemed to slump deeper into his seat.

“Jesus, Enjolras, what _have_ you seen?” Feuilly said, shaking his head in disbelief.

Courfeyrac leaned over the bar and grabbed his shoulders.

“Enjolras,” he said, eyes wide in horror. “Tell me you’ve seen _Dirty Dancing_.”

His silence was all the confirmation they needed. Courfeyrac wailed in despair.

“We should have a movie night,” Jehan said, patting Enjolras on the arm sympathetically.

“It would take a month to get through everything,” Feuilly said. “Because I’m assuming at this point you haven’t seen _anything._ ”

“I’ve seen _Star Wars_ ,” Enjolras muttered glumly.

“Yes, we all know how much you love _Star Wars_ ,” Grantaire said. “You’re all about the Resistance narrative.”

“I’m going to start a shared document and list all the movies Enj needs to see,” Courfeyrac said, pulling out his phone. “Feel free to add any movies you feel are relevant to us as a society.”

The bell on the door chimed and Courfeyrac looked up, sliding his Customer Service Face into place. A man who looked like a cross between a biker, a business man, and a greaser from the ‘50s stood in the doorway, and Courfeyrac had never thought those were three physical qualities he would attribute to one person, but there he was. There were honest-to-God spikes on his leather jacket, but underneath that he wore a pristine, black, button-up shirt and a crimson tie, which matched his red, leather shoes. His hair was slicked back with so much product Courfeyrac could practically see his reflection in it.

What struck Courfeyrac the most, however, was the stranger’s bare neck; he was human, but the rose vine tattoo on his neck was exposed above the standard collar of his shirt. If a police officer saw him, or a vampire who was offended enough to call in the crime, he would get arrested on the spot.

The stranger gave a cursory glance around the bar before his gaze landed on them and he swaggered over, a smirk forming on his sharp features.

Enjolras stood and shook the man’s hand, which was a little like watching a teacher shake hands with an ‘80s cartoon villain. Courfeyrac almost missed the note that was passed from the stranger’s palm to Enjolras’s.

“Montparnasse,” Enjolras said coolly. “Glad you could make it.”

“Always a pleasure, Angel Face,” the man said, then leaned around Enjolras and winked at Jehan. “Prouvaire.”

Jehan smiled and blew a kiss. The moment got at least two levels more surreal.

“And you must be Courfeyrac,” Montparnasse said, giving him an appraising look.

Courfeyrac blinked at him, utterly at a loss. Who was this guy?

“Er, yeah,” he said belatedly, stretching out a hand. “How did you…?”

“We have a mutual friend, it seems,” Montparnasse said in lieu of response, gripping his hand. “Give Eponine my regards next time you see her.”

Eponine?

Montparnasse turned back to Enjolras and leaned his hips casually against the bar, smirk still in place. He seemed completely relaxed, but Courfeyrac knew a viper when he saw one; the casual posture was calculated and self-aware, a façade for a coil ready to spring at any moment.

“Any more errands for me, chief?” he asked Enjolras, spitting the word _errands_ like it was something rotten in his mouth.

“Just one,” Enjolras said, and Feuilly produced a flash drive from his pocket, tossing it to Montparnasse. He gave a mock salute and turned on his heel without another word, apparently eager to be out of the bar as quickly as possible.

Upon opening the door, he paused and looked over his shoulder.

“Movie tomorrow, Prouvaire?” he said, and for the first time since he entered the Musain, Courfeyrac saw something genuine flash in his eyes.

“If you’re paying,” Jehan replied.

Montparnasse grinned and crossed the threshold into the cold of the night, swiftly shutting the door behind him.

“Jehan,” Courfeyrac said, gaping at them. “Was that your boyfriend?”

Jehan hummed in the affirmative and knocked back the rest of their drink, and Courfeyrac tried to sort through his thoughts (there were so many) so he could form one question at a time.

“He’s in the Patron Minette,” Enjolras said, graciously filling in the details. “A notorious gang of criminals.”

“He’s in a gang?” Courfeyrac wheeled on Jehan. “You’re dating a _gangster_?”

“Sure am,” they said brightly.

“They help us out every now and then, whenever we need resources that are, uh,” Feuilly grimaced and scratched his freckled cheek. “Legally difficult to obtain.”

“They do our dirty work,” Grantaire said bluntly, prompting Enjolras to shoot him a glare. “What? It’s true.”

The flash drive. The note subtly passed between Montparnasse and Enjolras. Courfeyrac had to wonder what could be so incriminating that it would be kept secret from the rest of the group. 

Still, there was something even more pressing on his mind.

“How does he know Eponine?” he asked. Everyone fell silent, giving Courfeyrac furtive looks. Which was not comforting.

A gang. Eponine was affiliated with a literal gang now? Courfeyrac did not know how to process that information, or why it made his chest ache in worry. She would have told Courfeyrac if she was in trouble, right?

“I’m sure Eponine is fine,” Enjolras said gently, guessing his thoughts. “She can hold her own.”

“But why?” Courfeyrac said, unable to shake it off. “Why would she go to them?”

_Why would she go to them and not me?_

“You should bring it up next time you see her,” Jehan suggested, placing a hand over his. “Try not to worry too much. If Montparnasse is with her, I’m sure she’s fine.”

Courfeyrac swallowed down the mass of emotions threatening to choke him and nodded. They were still looking at him with concerned expressions, so he wiped all traces of distress from his features and forced a smile.

“Yeah, speaking of which,” he said playfully. “Is Montparnasse _actually_ his name?”

Grantaire and Feuilly laughed like they’d been waiting for that question specifically.

“Like the tower? Seriously?” 

“I’d say he’s rather like Montparnasse tower,” Jehan said cryptically.

“He’s an eyesore?” Grantaire quipped.

“Everyone hates him?” Feuilly joined in.

“No,” Jehan said, their eyes suddenly having a mischievous spark. “The view from the top is spectacular.”

Grantaire _howled_ and everyone collectively lost it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Montparnasse Tower is this big, ugly skyscraper in Paris that literally everyone hates, because it looks super out of place in the skyline. Everyone hated it so much, in fact, that after it was completed, buildings taller than seven stories were banned from being constructed in the city center. The running joke is that the best view of Paris is from the top of Montparnasse Tower-because it's the only view where you _can't see_ Montparnasse Tower.
>   * Seriously, [look at it](http://image.noelshack.com/fichiers/2015/42/1445087845-tour-montparnasse.jpg) lmao. It's ridiculous. Like Montparnasse.
>   * I don't know if I've mentioned it before or if it isn't obvious enough by now, but the city runs on vampire time; businesses open after sunset, everyone sleeps during the day and is active at night, and generally only a few humans mill about outside during the day. So, breakfast would be in the early evening, and bars wouldn't start serving alcohol until around three or four in the morning.
> 



	5. I Want To Share Your Mouthful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the next phase of ABC's smear campaign, and Enjolras has something special up his sleeve for a few of them. Combeferre is on board as always, but has a hard time focusing on anything except Courfeyrac.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two of the double-update! FYI, this is where that Explicit rating comes in to play (fucking finally). The Alt-J chapter title of the day is, once again, from "Every Other Freckle," because that song is too good.

Another Saturday, another ABC meeting. Combeferre hadn’t seen Courfeyrac since the night in the safe house a week prior; unless he counted striding into the Musain on Wednesday with every intention of talking things out, seeing Courfeyrac laugh at something a customer said while pouring them a drink, losing his nerve, and leaving before Courfeyrac saw him.

Now, however, there was no avoiding him. 

As soon as Combeferre reached the top of the stairs, Courfeyrac’s eyes flew to his. His heart rate kicked up immediately, because that was just how far gone he was.

Climbing the stairs had sent a wave of dizziness over him, and Combeferre had to close his eyes momentarily while the room swam slowly into focus. When he finally got his bearings back, he shrugged off his coat, biting back a sigh of disappointment. The new formula wasn’t working, then.

On the plus side, this pill seemed to have no adverse side-effects; he had been taking it for four nights, five including tonight, and there hadn’t been any headaches, nausea, skin irritation, or any other discomfort. The pill just… didn’t work. He could feel his body growing weaker and weaker from hunger every day.

He tried not to be too disappointed. It was only the second try, after all. His brain was already swimming with equations and chemical compounds, trying to isolate the problem, so when he turned and came face-to-face with Courfeyrac, he started, glasses sliding down his nose. Courfeyrac threw his hands up in an _I come in peace_ gesture, giving him a small, nervous smile. 

Somehow, he looked more radiant than ever, like he was glowing under a spotlight. His hair looked enticingly soft and bouncy, and Combeferre’s fingers twitched forward involuntarily, wanting so badly to touch.

“Hey,” Courfeyrac said cautiously.

Combeferre let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. “Hi.”

Courfeyrac’s eyebrows drew together in concern as he looked over his face.

“Are you okay?” he asked, resting a warm hand on his arm. “You don’t look well.”

“Yeah, uh, just a little tired,” Combeferre managed to reply, hoping he didn’t look like he wanted desperately to kiss the little frown off Courfeyrac’s face.

After another few seconds of silent contemplation, Courfeyrac seemed to reluctantly decide to let Combeferre off the hook.

“So, what’s up with this meeting?” he said, nodding to the laptops and notebooks everyone had brought per Enjolras’s request. “We’re taking notes now?”

“Oh, crap, I forgot to bring my tablet,” Combeferre said, frowning. Everything was just so out of focus, lately, thoughts too slippery to keep hold of. Looking at Courfeyrac, though, he found it easier for his swimming thoughts to come ashore. “Er, can I borrow some paper?”

“Look who didn’t come to class prepared,” Courfeyrac teased. “Maybe we can study at my place after school.”

Combeferre processed this as best as he could. Was he flirting? It was so difficult to tell with Courfeyrac, whose default state was flirting. Then again, Courfeyrac was incredibly aware of the nuances of social interactions; surely, after the misstep at the safe house, he wouldn’t make suggestive remarks if he didn’t mean them?

Courfeyrac was looking at him expectantly, and Combeferre realized he was passing him the ball. It was up to Combeferre to decide the tone of the conversation—whether it was just playful flirting between friends, or something deeper.

Okay. He could do that. 

He dropped his voice lower and moved imperceptibly closer. “I don’t know if just studying would help… Do you offer private tutoring?”

Courfeyrac’s eyes widened a fraction, but he smiled slyly.

“You’re in luck,” he said, matching Combeferre’s tone. “I don’t charge for tutoring anymore.”

Combeferre had to snicker at the joke.

Courfeyrac looked like he wanted to say something more, but Enjolras chose that moment to step in with a giant needle and burst the bubble around them.

“Good, you’re here,” he said to Combeferre, not noticing or choosing not to comment on how he and Courfeyrac instantly jolted back from one another. “I need to talk to you two.”

He moved past them, motioning over Feuilly as he went. For the briefest of moments, Combeferre felt irrationally angry at Enjolras for cutting in, wanting to keep Courfeyrac to himself; he quickly shook the feeling off, though, appalled at the potency of his reaction. Increased irritability was an expected result of hunger and fatigue, but it was what lay behind the anger that scared him—a definite undercurrent of possessiveness he had never felt before, and never wanted to feel again. What was wrong with him?

“I wanted to wait for us all to be in one place before I brought this up,” Enjolras said, once the four of them had moved a bit away from the rest of the group. With some difficulty, Combeferre forced himself to focus on what he was saying. There would be time to assess his emotions later.

“I’m going to talk to everyone about the next phase of the plan in a minute,” Enjolras continued, oblivious to Combeferre’s struggle. “But there is a future phase that will require a little more discretion. Only the four of us will carry it out.”

Courfeyrac looked surprised at this, and a little confused.

“Not that I’m not eager and willing to participate, but…” he said, sliding his fingers through his hair. “If it’s top secret, shouldn’t this be a mission for, you know. Inner-circle only?”

Enjolras gave him a bewildered look, opened his mouth, closed it, and looked to Feuilly for help.

“Courfeyrac,” Feuilly said, smiling. “You _are_ inner-circle.”

In Combeferre’s opinion, he was the very center. The beautiful, beating heart of ABC. But he may have been biased.

Slow and sweeter than honey, a bashful smile spread on Courfeyrac’s face as he looked between the three of them.

“Oh,” he said with a nonchalance that did not match his pink cheeks. “Okay. Uh, proceed.”

“The week before the election, we have a series of hits planned. We’ll strike hard and fast,” Enjolras said.

“Not, like, _V for Vendetta_ hits, right?”

Enjolras gave Courfeyrac a blank stare in response. Courfeyrac sighed and pulled out his phone, shaking his head as he typed something into a document.

“Adding that to the list,” he muttered.

“I still don’t understand the question,” Enjolras said, growing agitated.

“Bombs, Enjolras,” Feuilly translated. “Are bombs part of your plan?”

“What? No,” he said. “Too many civilians.”

“Am I supposed to take that to mean there _would_ be bombs otherwise?” Courfeyrac asked, raising his eyebrows at Enjolras.

Enjolras shrugged, unapologetic.

“Doesn’t matter. They’re not,” he said shortly. “What _is_ part of the plan is a scheduled power outage at several key sites in the city.”

“Do these ‘key sites’ include legislative buildings?” Combeferre said dryly.

“Do you even have to ask?”

Feuilly whistled lowly. “How are we going to pull that off?”

In response, Enjolras pulled out three envelopes with each of their names written on them.

“You’ll find the details in here,” he said, handing them out. “This won’t be executed until late in the election season, probably after the first round of votes, so all the details haven’t been hammered out yet. I’ll keep you all posted on the developments.”

He then paused. 

“Even with every precaution, this plan is dangerous. You’ll be helping commit a felony.”

“This entire organization is a felony, Enj,” Courfeyrac said, nudging his arm amicably. “We’re all in. Right?”

Feuilly and Combeferre nodded, and Enjolras beamed at them.

“What are you four whispering about over there?” Bahorel called from the main table, aiming a peanut at Feuilly’s head and missing.

“Not at liberty to say, my man,” Courfeyrac called back, still glowing from his newfound position in the ‘inner-circle.’ “Top secret stuff.”

Grantaire blew a raspberry in his direction, and Courfeyrac laughed and went to sit with everyone. Combeferre made to follow suit, but a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Combeferre,” Enjolras said quietly, drawing him back, and he tore his eyes away from Courfeyrac to look at him. “Is everything alright? You seem a little… distracted.”

Combeferre felt another fresh wave of irritation, and this time he felt justified in it. Why was everyone suddenly so concerned about him? 

“Everything is the same as usual, Enjolras,” he said tersely, because if he uttered the words _I’m fine_ one more time he would probably snap. 

Enjolras scrutinized him silently, eyes narrowing. 

“Are you not taking your blood capsules again?”

“Of course not.”

“Because you know how dangerous—“

“Yes, I know, Enj,” he interjected, fighting to keep his voice down so he wouldn’t attract attention. He shook Enjolras’s hand off and took a half a step back, wanting this conversation to be over so he could stop lying to his best friend.

“It’s just that… you haven’t been yourself lately? I’m just. Worried.” Enjolras shifted on his feet, his frown growing. “You know I’m not good at this.”

At that, some of Combeferre’s irritation faded, and he couldn’t help but smile. Enjolras was the most gifted orator among them, born and bred for public speaking. They sometimes joked he should run for office, so at least one person in politics had their interests in mind. Yet on a more personal level, Enjolras found the intricacies of social interaction to be tedious and complicated. When he tried to emote to someone, it meant he really, truly cared.

“I know,” Combeferre said again, offering a hand. Enjolras clasped it gratefully. “But everything’s okay. Really.”

“I don’t believe you,” Enjolras said. “But I’m here if you need me.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next phase, as Enjolras had mentioned before, was Grantaire’s artistic contribution. Now that they had spread the word with posters, it was time to introduce a visual element. Turn the dial up, so to speak. With the locations assigned and plotted out on The Map, Enjolras proceeded to project an honest-to-God PowerPoint presentation on a blank wall. Each location—all famous landmarks, of course—would have a unique art installment. 

No one was quite prepared for the images.

“Is that… is that statue of a candidate completely naked—“

“With a baguette for a dick?” Grantaire finished proudly. “Yes. Yes it is.”

Bossuet sniffed and wiped away a fake tear. “It’s beautiful.”

The art pieces varied in format and style, and would require all hands on deck to pull off, plus a little outside help. They were hitting the highest profile places, which meant aid from city employees was indispensable.

Enjolras had not been joking about graffiti-ing the Louvre.

“Here’s the part where part where you take notes,” Enjolras said, clicking to the next slide. “Every location will have a time slot to get in, install the piece, and get out. I’ve put together ideal route maps, and our friends in Patron Minette—“

“I wouldn’t call them friends,” Musichetta muttered.

“—Have provided us with a list of people at each site that will help you come and go unnoticed.”

Notre Dame Cathedral. The Arc de Triomphe. The Louvre. Pont Alexandre III. Four of the most well-known landmarks in Paris, divided among the twelve of them to publicly deface. Enjolras went through the locations in detail, each group of three diligently taking down the information on their site. They had a few weeks before the night of the plan, and in that time, each team was expected to get as familiar as possible with their location.

Combeferre zoned out while the other teams were getting briefed, extremely aware of Courfeyrac’s thigh pressed against his and trying not to let it show. He couldn’t help but sneak glances at him, watch the way the dim glow of the projector played on his skin, the way he nibbled pensively on his pen cap. 

Distracted, Enjolras had said. Distracted was right. This was getting ridiculous.

On cue, Courfeyrac poked him on the arm to get his attention (as if he hadn’t been its sole recipient the entire night). He slid his notebook toward Combeferre, a note scribbled on the corner of the page.

 _I thought we’d be grouped with Enj,_ it read. _Who’s Cosette?_

Combeferre picked up his pen and wrote a line under Courfeyrac’s swirly handwriting. 

_The blond girl sitting by Bahorel,_ he wrote. _She’s nice. You’ll like her._

_I’ve never seen her around before?_

_Her dad’s an important businessman. And very protective._

Courfeyrac chewed on the inside of his lip. _Conservative asshole?_

_Our biggest benefactor, actually. He’s the reason we have any funds at all._

Combeferre smiled at Courfeyrac’s surprised expression.

_I guess I should thank him for my apartment, then._

He set his pen down, then, and they pretended to listen to Enjolras’s lecture for a while. Something seemed to strike Courfeyrac, though, and he was quickly back to scribbling in the notebook again.

_So R is in Enj’s group. Is that because his designs are essential to the plan?_

Combeferre rolled his eyes dramatically.

_Yeah. That’s why R’s in his group._

Courfeyrac pursed his lips, amused. 

_Ditched for a scruffy artist. Tragic._

He drew a halfway-decent caricature of Grantaire in the margins, made recognizable by his wild hair and stubbly cheeks. Combeferre had never been so enamored with a shitty doodle. He grinned at Courfeyrac, who shrugged innocently.

Someone kicked him under the table, and he looked up to find Joly giving him a significant look. 

‘What?’ Combeferre mouthed, genuinely confused.

Joly looked between him and Courfeyrac, then pulled his phone out. A minute later, Combeferre’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

 _Bathroom. Now, please,_ the text read. 

Now what? Combeferre shoved his phone back in his pocket and squeezed himself out of his seat.

“Take notes for me?” he whispered to Courfeyrac on his way. He gave Combeferre a confused look but nodded, turning back to Enjolras’s presentation. Their team’s plans were up next on the slide show. Whatever Joly needed to talk to him about, Combeferre hoped he would make it quick.

Joly looked washed out in the faint light of the bathroom, leaning heavier than normal on his cane, his usual liveliness subdued. When he saw Combeferre, though, some of his energy seemed to return.

“Tough shift at the hospital?” Combeferre asked.

“Tough _double_ shift, plus flu season,” Joly said, waving his hand dismissively. “Don’t make this about me. Are you attracted to Courfeyrac?”

It took Combeferre a moment to regain his footing, taken aback by the blunt accusation.

“Er, what makes you think…?” he started, but Joly didn’t let him finish.

“The new formula isn’t working,” Joly more stated than asked. Still, Combeferre nodded in confirmation.

“Take a blood capsule,” he said firmly. “A full one. Right now.”

“I was going to take half a dose after the meeting,” Combeferre said, baffled. “Joly, what is going on?”

“You are fixating on him, Combeferre,” Joly said, which cleared up absolutely nothing. Joly seemed to ascertain as much, because he sighed heavily and rubbed a hand over his eyes.

“I guess they don’t teach these things to most vampires, since it doesn’t tend to come up very often,” he said. “Most vampires don’t starve themselves for science.”

He wordlessly hobbled closer and pulled a blood capsule out of his pocket, thrusting it into Combeferre’s hand. He stared Combeferre down until he grudgingly put it on his tongue, cupping some water from the sink to swallow it down. Once he did that, Joly finally relaxed a fraction, and with the intensity gone, he looked more tired than before.

“The longer a vampire goes without blood, the more dangerous they become to humans,” he said, leaning against the sink. “You already know that. Usually, it takes anywhere from two to three weeks for the hunger to take its toll and the vampire to lose all control.

“But when a vampire is attracted to a _particular_ human, that human is put in significantly more danger than anyone else. They start looking more appealing. More distracting. All the vampire’s attention becomes focused on them, like tunnel vision. They start feeling possessive of the human. Sound familiar?”

Combeferre slowly leaned his back against the door, feeling dizzy in an entirely different way than before.

“The longer the vampire goes without blood, the more attractive this human becomes,” Joly continued. “Until the vampire becomes so fixated on them, they accidentally glamour the human. And then, well…”

Joly didn’t have to finish the sentence. Combeferre’s ears started ringing. Oh, God. _Oh, God._

“I didn’t,” Combeferre said hoarsely. Cleared his throat, started again. “I didn’t know you could accidentally glamour someone.”

“It’s a survival mechanism, ‘Ferre,” Joly said quietly. He had taken on a gentler tone, watching Combeferre shake with the realization of what had been happening to him. “If your body needs nourishment, it will do everything it can to get it.”

As the blood capsule worked its way through his system and the fog slowly lifted from his brain, the full understanding of the situation settled on his shoulders like lead. 

He could have glamoured Courfeyrac. He could have glamoured him, sunk his teeth into the tender flesh of his throat, and bled him dry. Combeferre closed his eyes and fought down the bile climbing up his throat.

“You wouldn’t have glamoured him tonight,” Joly said, trying to console him. “I’d say you had another few nights, at least. And you would have fought it. I know you’d never want to hurt him.”

But it didn’t matter what he wanted. His survival mechanism would bypass any autonomy he had, right? Now fully in control of himself once more, he looked back on the events of the night in abject horror. His irritation at Enjolras hadn’t been a side-effect of fatigue, it was a territorial reaction to being separated from Courfeyrac.

Combeferre squeezed his eyes shut. His singular focus on Courfeyrac, like no one else mattered, like everything else blurred into the background. How had he not noticed it?

Joly’s hand on his shoulder pulled him out of the rushing current of thoughts that threatened to drown him.

“Hey, stop that,” Joly said sternly.

Combeferre searched his eyes desperately, looking for—what? Accusation? Disgust? Absolution? Instead, what he found was compassion, because Joly was possibly the best of them.

“I know I’ve asked you this about a hundred times already,” he said. “But are you sure you want to keep doing this?”

“Yes,” Combeferre said, after a shaky breath. “I’ll know what signs to look out for now. It will never get to this point again.”

“See that it doesn’t,” Joly said, withdrawing. “I think you should give it a week before you start another trial. At least two more full doses of blood capsules.”

For once, Combeferre didn’t argue.

The meeting was over when he and Joly exited the bathroom, all notes put away and replaced with drinks and bar food. Someone had put on music, something with an acoustic, folk feel. Courfeyrac was talking to Cosette and Marius by the dart board, and Combeferre hesitated before walking over. Nothing had happened, and he knew the warning signals to look for now, but the shock of how his own biology had betrayed him made his legs tremble where he stood.

It disturbed him greatly to realize how his intense focus had seemed almost… _normal_ at the time—until he had taken the blood capsule and his body resumed functioning properly. Nothing had felt particularly off, even as the people around him commented on his strange behavior. Combeferre wondered if it was really wise to get closer to Courfeyrac when his self-control was so jeopardized. What else could seem normal when malnutrition undermined logic? What if Joly wasn’t there to step in next time? Perhaps the best course of action would be to distance himself, put the feelings he had for Courfeyrac on the backburner until he had a successful trial.

Courfeyrac noticed him approaching and gave him a big smile, waving him over. He was still captivating, a spark of flame in the darkness that his eyes were immediately drawn to; but he was no longer all that filled Combeferre’s vision, everything else muted and unimportant. It did not take Combeferre a substantial amount of effort to look away.

“Hey, where’d you disappear to?” Courfeyrac asked when he got closer, handing him a beer. “You missed our debriefing.”

“Sorry,” he said with a small smile. “Joly needed to talk to me. Hi, Cosette.”

“Hi,” she said warmly, kissing him on both cheeks. She looked lovely as always, waist-length hair perfectly curled, her baby blue, cashmere sweater matching her eyes. She could have passed for Enjolras’s sister. “How have you been?”

“Not bad,” he said, shrugging easily. “So we’re in the same group, huh?”

“The three C’s,” Courfeyrac said. “Triple threat.”

“Calm, cool and collected,” Cosette said, clinking glasses with him and Courfeyrac. “I think it’ll be a nice change.”

Marius gave her a tragic look, like she flushed his goldfish in the toilet. 

“Oh, I don’t mean it like that, Marius,” she quickly amended, twining their fingers together. “I just mean it’ll be nice to hang out with Combeferre for a change, and get to know Courfeyrac. Besides, you see enough of me as it is.”

“Never,” Marius said immediately, and Cosette gave him a swift peck on the lips. 

“Ugh, stop being adorable,” Courfeyrac said, making Marius blush scarlet. His tone was lighthearted, but Combeferre did not miss the wistful way he looked at the couple. He glanced quickly at Combeferre and away again, and the yearning in his eyes was unmistakable.

“Cosette, you have my number,” Combeferre said, his chest suddenly feeling tight. “Let’s all meet up sometime next week and go over the plan, maybe go down to the, er…”

He realized belatedly he had not been paying attention when Enjolras had given the assignments, wrapped up as he was in Courfeyrac, and as such had no idea which site they were targeting. 

“The bridge?” Courfeyrac said slowly.

“Right.” Combeferre laughed it off, feigning mild embarrassment. “Couldn’t do words for a minute there. It’s one of those nights.”

“Been there,” Cosette said cordially, smiling kindly. “Anyway, I should get going. I live a little out of the way.”

“Nice meeting you, Cosette,” Courfeyrac said, kissing her cheeks in parting. 

After she and Marius left, Courfeyrac turned to Combeferre with a dubious expression.

“You forgot what our assignment was, didn’t you,” he said.

Combeferre sighed and put on a chagrined expression. “Yes.”

Courfeyrac shook his head, smiling. 

“Unbelievable. Tutoring you will be harder than I thought.” He took a small step closer, running a hand up Combeferre’s arm. “We should probably get a head start on that.”

Combeferre confronted his desire, shoved it down, and locked it safely away. 

“Actually, I should also probably get going,” he said carefully, stepping back even though everything in him was screaming to do the opposite. “Work and everything.”

Courfeyrac narrowed his eyes at him.

“You don’t have work tomorrow.”

“I’m putting in extra hours.” 

Agitation started to creep into Courfeyrac’s disposition. He stared Combeferre down, letting the raw hurt and frustration show on his face, and Combeferre hated himself in that moment.

“You don’t have to lie to me, you know,” he said, quieter than Combeferre had expected. “If you don’t want to, you know, _be_ with me that way, that’s fine. I thought we were…” he stopped and looked away, and the shutters closed once again on his expression. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I understand.”

He started to walk away, but Combeferre’s hand shot out involuntarily and grabbed his wrist, holding him back.

“Courf, that’s not what—“ Combeferre tried, but his thoughts stumbled over themselves in their haste. He looked into Courfeyrac’s eyes, trying to see past the blinds he had firmly shut moments before. He needed him to understand. “I—of course I want that. Courf, I want that—you— _so much._ ”

Courfeyrac wavered, uncertain, but Combeferre knew he had broken through in some way. He took a quick look around the room; nobody had overheard them, everyone talking loudly over the music, but Combeferre still felt this conversation warranted more privacy. He weaved through the tables and people, pulling Courfeyrac along behind him, until they reached the hallway with the bathrooms, away from inquisitive eyes. 

“I do want this,” he continued, trying to be mindful of his phrasing. “But with everything going on, I just think maybe we should wait.”

“Wait for what, Combeferre?” Courfeyrac looked exasperated and a little miffed now, but Combeferre would take that over closed-off indifference. “The election? ABC always has something going on, and it’s not like this smear campaign, or whatever, is that time-consuming.”

“No, it’s not that,” Combeferre said. “It’s just—“

“Is it me?” Courfeyrac cut in, clearly not in the mood for platitudes or dancing around the subject.

“ _No_ , no—“

“Are you afraid I’m too damaged?” His voice had a tremor to it now. “That I’ll never get over all this… this baggage, and be able to have a proper relationship with you?”

For a minute, Combeferre didn’t know what he was talking about. He was so caught up in trying to come up with an explanation for wanting to keep his distance without exposing his and Joly’s experiment, he didn’t stop to think about what Courfeyrac might infer from his reticence. 

When it dawned on him, he felt like the world’s biggest asshole.

“Courfeyrac,” he said, putting his hands on Courfeyrac’s upper arms and squeezing gently. “This has nothing to do with what happened at the safe house. Well, it does,” he amended. “But not in the way you think. I don’t think you’re damaged, or you have too much baggage, or anything like that.”

Combeferre looked into Courfeyrac’s eyes, large and full of hope, and pushed through the guilt that was steadily suffocating his resolve. He told himself it was better to tell half of the truth than an outright lie.

“I don’t want or expect you to change,” he said earnestly. “ _I’m_ the one who wants to change. You’ve been through so much, and I—I don’t deserve you, Courf.”

Courfeyrac gaped at him, thoroughly bewildered, and, to Combeferre’s surprise, seemed to grow _angry._

“What the hell are you talking about?” he snapped.

“I—well,” Combeferre stuttered, instinctively defensive. “You’ve been dealing with shitty vampires for a long time, and I maybe didn’t want to be one of them?”

Courfeyrac laughed in disbelief, but there was no humor in his voice. If anything, he seemed to get angrier.

“Oh my god,” he said. “Are you kidding me? You think I even remotely associate you with those people?”

Combeferre didn’t know what to say anymore, so he just stared at him.

“Oh my god,” Courfeyrac said again.

Without saying another word, he grabbed Combeferre’s hand and dragged him into the men’s bathroom, locking the door behind them. 

Then their lips were crushed together, and Courfeyrac’s body was pressed firmly against his, pushing him backwards until Combeferre’s back hit the wall.

What was left of Combeferre’s resolve was snuffed out by Courfeyrac’s tongue in his mouth, Courfeyrac’s hands sliding up his shirt, the growing heat between their bodies. The truth was, he wanted this too much to refuse it now, reason be damned. Every molecule in his body was singing for this.

Fuck it.

He cupped Courfeyrac’s jaw in his hand and tilted his head for a better angle, deepening the kiss into something positively filthy, all teeth and tongue and no restraint; his other hand sought the smooth skin under Courfeyrac’s sweater, drawing him even closer. 

Courfeyrac moaned, and the jolt of electricity it sent down Combeferre’s back had him sinking his fingers into his skin and canting his hips forward to alleviate the rapidly developing ache in his groin.

Courfeyrac drew back, breathing shallowly into the scant space between them, and the fierce look he gave Combeferre pinned him in place.

“You’re nothing like them, Combeferre,” he said.

Then he dropped to his knees.

“Um,” Combeferre breathed, watching Courfeyrac unbuckle his belt with nimble fingers. “What, uh—what are you…”

Courfeyrac peered up at him from under his eyelashes.

“Proving a point,” he said smartly, palming his dick through his underwear. “Is that alright with you?”

Combeferre exhaled sharply.

“Yeah, uh. Yes.” It was absolutely, one hundred-percent alright with him.

Courfeyrac spared him an amused look before pulling out his already half-hard cock, licking his lips with what looked like keen anticipation. His breath ghosted across the sensitive head before he inclined his head and pressed his mouth against the base, tongue flicking out to lick a strip of skin. Combeferre shuddered, unable to look away from Courfeyrac’s lips, lush and bitten red from kissing, working their way up the length of his cock. He took his time, mouthing and licking until his cock was slick with spit, driving Combeferre insane with the agonizing pace. 

Then Courfeyrac’s attention shifted to the head, alternating between sucking it lightly and tonguing the slit. Holding back desperate groans was becoming a serious challenge.

Just when Combeferre thought he would take him fully in his mouth, Courfeyrac went back to kissing the length lightly, pumping him with his hand without any real pressure.

Combeferre finally broke.

“Please,” he pleaded in a whisper, not trusting his voice to remain steady.

Something flashed in Courfeyrac’s eyes, like he had been waiting for Combeferre to beg, which was both frustrating and incredibly sexy. In an instant, he sank his mouth down around Combeferre’s cock, engulfing him in slick, exquisite heat. 

Combeferre’s hands flew to Courfeyrac’s hair of their own volition, threading fingers through thick curls and tugging lightly. Courfeyrac’s eyes fluttered shut and he hollowed his cheeks, sucking slowly up to the tip before dipping down again.

“Oh, God,” Combeferre moaned, his brain all but short-circuiting. He fought to keep his eyes from closing in pleasure, wanting to commit every second to memory, mesmerized by the sight of his cock disappearing into Courfeyrac’s lovely mouth, his thick eyelashes casting shadows on his cheekbones in the dim light of the bathroom.

Courfeyrac began to set a steady pace, bobbing his head and taking in half of Combeferre’s cock with his mouth while pumping the rest with his fist, twisting his wrist expertly at the bottom. Every now and then, he would let his teeth scrape lightly against his skin on the way up, eliciting gasps and shudders from Combeferre.

God, he was good. Combeferre supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised, but _fuck,_ he was good. He lost himself in the pressure of his mouth, so hot and wet and perfect.

“Perfect,” he heard himself babble, all restraint long gone. “You’re fucking perfect.”

Courfeyrac hummed around his cock, somehow managing to look pleased with himself even with his mouth stretched over his length. Just when Combeferre thought it couldn't get any better, he slid his hand down the base and swallowed him all the way down, until the tip hit the back of his throat. Combeferre’s head hit the wall with a _thunk_ as he gasped, tightening his grip on Courfeyrac’s hair. On his way up, Courfeyrac pressed his tongue flat against the vein on the underside of the shaft, relentless in his ministrations.

It took every inch of Combeferre’s willpower not to thrust into his mouth, but Courfeyrac made it easy on him by doing away with all teasing, refusing to let up on the pressure as he sank all the way down to the base again and again. Thick, delicious heat began to pool in Combeferre’s abdomen, swelling more and more with each pull of Courfeyrac’s mouth.

“Ah, Courf,” he struggled to speak between shaky moans. “ _Fuck,_ I’m—I’m close…”

Courfeyrac did not give any indication of pulling away, however. If anything, he doubled his efforts, pushing Combeferre’s hips against the wall with his hands to keep him from arching forward. Combeferre felt the muscles in his stomach tense, and he finally did shut his eyes as the heat in his groin culminated in an intense orgasm, sending sparks through his fingertips and toes and giving him a blinding head rush.

The guttural moan ripped from his throat was in the form of Courfeyrac’s name, because that was the only word he could remember—the only word that mattered.

Courfeyrac worked him through the rocking waves of his climax, swallowing every drop with ease. When the tremors finally ceased and Combeferre’s vision came back to him, he pulled off his cock with an obscene, wet noise and zipped him back into his pants without showmanship, like he hadn’t just reduced him to a boneless mess in the sketchy upstairs bathroom of the Musain. Maybe it was just the hazy glow of the incredible orgasm he just had, but Combeferre thought he might be a little in love.

He pulled Courfeyrac up off the hard floor and couldn’t help but kiss him again, slow and meaningful this time, because he still found words to be a little difficult. He felt Courfeyrac smile against his lips.

“So,” he said at last, voice raw but self-satisfied. “Are you done feeling weird and guilty about this?”

“Mostly,” Combeferre murmured, stroking a thumb along Courfeyrac’s jawline. “I might need a little more convincing, though.”

One corner of Courfeyrac’s mouth twitched up, and he leaned forward to place a kiss on Combeferre’s chin.

“Well, that invitation to ‘study’ at my place still stands,” he said, smirking. “Unless you really need to put in those extra hours at work.”

He slid out of Combeferre’s arms and sauntered to the door, throwing a suggestive look over his shoulder.

Work? _Work?_ Combeferre was prepared to quit right now if Courfeyrac asked him to.

“Fuck work,” he said, and followed Courfeyrac out of the hall and into the stairwell, stealing kisses all the way to his apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The groups for this phase of the plan, if anyone was curious, are as follows: Enjolras, Grantaire, and Marius; Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Cosette; Bahorel, Feuilly, and Jehan; and Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta.


	6. Your Foothills, Your Warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What we've all been waiting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year! This chapter is shorter than usual, but it's also purely smut. Flowery, cheesy smut, but smut nonetheless. So I hope that makes up for it?? Enjoy!

They stumbled into Courfeyrac’s apartment completely wrapped up in each other, kissing and touching every inch of bare skin they could get their hands on. The light switch remained unacknowledged as they navigated the apartment to Courfeyrac’s room, aided by the soft beams of moonlight filtering through the window.

Everything about the moment seemed surreal, ethereal; from the way the moonlight transformed Courfeyrac’s eyes to glittering pools of black, to the heat of his hands sweeping over Combeferre’s skin as they slid under his shirt. The apartment was so silent, every little noise seemed amplified. Soft sighs, the shifting of material as they shucked off the layers of clothing between them. The slick sounds of their mouths meeting again and again, each kiss harder than the last. When they finally fell onto the cool sheets of the bed, Courfeyrac’s body arching beneath him, Combeferre was dizzy with sensation.

Courfeyrac was a vision on the bed, cheeks flushed, lips wet and kiss-swollen, hair spread in a halo around his head. Though Combeferre was clear-headed for the first time in weeks, Courfeyrac’s magnetic pull was as present as ever. His eyes were so dark and deep Combeferre felt as though he was being pulled into their endless depths; nothing but darkness, silent and all-encompassing. Had he ever known darkness to be so warm, so comforting?

Maybe the glow that was still faintly clinging to him from his earlier orgasm was making Combeferre feel particularly poetic. He had never been one for writing, let alone writing poetry, nowhere near as skillful at crafting lines and stanzas as someone like Jehan. It was a shame, he thought, because Courfeyrac was the kind of person sonnets were written about.

Courfeyrac bit his lip and pulled Combeferre toward him again, kissing him urgently, desperately. His fingers left Combeferre’s skin tingling where they trailed, down his arms, around his shoulders, down his chest and stomach, to the waistband of his boxers. Though he was sated, Combeferre was just as greedy for the heat of contact. He licked deeper into Courfeyrac’s mouth, trying to memorize the sounds he was making, the press of his warm skin. Remembering every detail seemed crucial to him, like the moment might fade away if he didn’t keep hold of it.

While Courfeyrac seemed to become increasingly impatient, Combeferre grew more and more apprehensive. He knew Courfeyrac was interested—Combeferre could feel his interest every time he canted his hips upward, seeking friction—but whether or not proceeding was a good idea was unclear. His experimentation with the supplements was one thing; Combeferre had already decided this would be his final bow to temptation.

(One week, Joly had given him. One week before he was cleared to start a new trial. One week before he would be forced to distance himself from Courfeyrac, for his own safety.)

Courfeyrac’s own mental state, however, was an entirely different concern. He wanted nothing more than to protect Courfeyrac, even if it was from himself… but in this case, it seemed Courfeyrac was running from the one thing Combeferre couldn’t protect him from—his past.

Combeferre pulled back slightly to look into Courfeyrac’s fathomless, lust-blown eyes, and couldn’t help but have poetic feelings all over again.

“What is it?” Courfeyrac murmured, noticing Combeferre’s hesitance.

Combeferre paused, choosing his words cautiously.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this? I don’t mean physically,” he added after Courfeyrac gave him an incredulous look. “I mean…” Combeferre sighed and dropped his forehead onto the pillow, Courfeyrac’s hair tickling his face. It was easier to concentrate when there wasn’t direct eye contact. Courfeyrac began to run his hand up and down Combeferre’s side, waiting for him to speak.

“The last time we were headed in this direction,” Combeferre said slowly. “You… didn’t react well.”

Courfeyrac’s hand stilled at his side. Combeferre waited for a response, but Courfeyrac didn’t say anything. He pushed forward.

“I don’t want to do anything that would remind, or… or invoke some unpleasant memories,” he continued, turning his head so his lips brushed against the halo of curls. “If just touching your neck made you react like that, then…” Combeferre trailed off, letting the rest of the implication hang in the air. _What would actual sex do?_

For a long, strenuous moment, Courfeyrac was silent. Combeferre couldn’t see his face, but he had the feeling that even if he could, Courfeyrac’s expression would be unreadable. He breathed in the scent of his hair, mind whirring through the countless possible responses he might get, each worse than the other. With every passing second, he grew more convinced he had said the wrong thing, that this entire thing was a mistake, that he should just get up and leave now before Courfeyrac threw him out.

Finally, Courfeyrac moved. Combeferre thought at first he was trying to sit up, and made to move as well, but Courfeyrac pulled him closer, keeping light pressure on the back of his head to signal for him to stay where he was. Confused, Combeferre kept still, feeling Courfeyrac shift slightly farther up on the bed, and then the hand in his hair guided him forward, down—until his lips were a hairsbreadth away from Courfeyrac’s neck.

Combeferre froze in shock, but Courfeyrac gently pulled him in, stretching his neck out in invitation.

“I trust you,” he said, but Combeferre knew it wasn’t as simple as that.

Slowly, and softly, softly, Combeferre brushed his lips against the delicate skin. Courfeyrac shivered and tensed slightly, but didn’t push him away. Again, Combeferre put his lips lightly on his neck, and kept them there this time. Gradually, he began to apply more pressure, just resting his lips against skin. After a few more moments of stillness, Courfeyrac slowly let out a breath and sank into the sheets, muscles relaxing. Taking that as a good sign, Combeferre began softly kissing his skin, moving from his jaw to his collarbone. When Courfeyrac eventually let out a pleased hum, he switched to open-mouth kisses, and Courfeyrac craned his head back to give him better access, his fingers curling into Combeferre’s hair.

A sweet ache blossomed in Combeferre’s chest as Courfeyrac wrapped his legs around his waist. Courfeyrac was giving him a precious gift, one he kept close to himself and, Combeferre knew, rarely gave out—his trust. This human, this being with a universe inside him, was placing himself in Combeferre’s hands, and trusting him not to break him open. Combeferre trailed his mouth along the line of Courfeyrac’s collarbone, licked at the hollow of his throat, kissed across his chest and moved up to capture his lips again, kissing him deeply.

“What do you want?” he asked against Courfeyrac’s lips, his voice coming out in a low rumble. “Tell me.”

Courfeyrac moaned and leaned in for another long, hungry kiss. Then he broke away and tugged Combeferre’s hair back so they were looking at each other.

“Fuck me,” Courfeyrac said. Something between a groan and a laugh escaped Combeferre.

“I’m not twenty-five anymore,” he said while Courfeyrac kissed along his jaw.

Courfeyrac snorted. “You’re not that old.”

“Old enough to not have the same recovery time,” Combeferre said wryly. Courfeyrac pulled Combeferre’s earlobe between his teeth.

“We have all night,” he whispered into his ear.

He was too good at this. Combeferre silently admitted that denying Courfeyrac anything was virtually impossible.

Combeferre pushed him back onto the sheets and shifted down the bed, kissing across his chest and sucking a nipple into his mouth. Courfeyrac’s fingernails dug into his shoulders as he drew in a sharp breath, and Combeferre was suddenly seized with single minded determination. One goal, a crystal clear thought amidst the fog in his mind, took hold of him: even if it was for only one night, he would rid Courfeyrac of the demons from his past. He would make Courfeyrac forget the brothel, forget the brutal reality of survival, forget everything outside of the room they were currently in—until nothing tainted _this_. This blissful moment, this manifestation of smoldering energy, this eruption of something that had been building between them ever since they had laid eyes on each other. Every inch of skin needed to be kissed, to be praised and worshiped. Combeferre couldn’t erase the marks of other hands and mouths—teeth—but he could smother them in a new layer of tenderness, until they were no more than a shadow; to do so felt natural. Courfeyrac was made to be adored.

Down his torso, between ribs, around hip bones, into his navel, Combeferre poured his adoration. Courfeyrac’s whispers of encouragement became whimpers and gasps when Combeferre pulled his underwear down and wrapped his lips around him, drawing him in completely before slowly coming up, pressing his tongue down firmly and relishing the shuddering moan he received for it.

“Fuck,” Courfeyrac breathed, clenching his hands around fistfuls of bed sheets.

Combeferre continued his ministrations until he heard the hitch in Courfeyrac’s breathing and the subtle tension of his muscles, and then he reluctantly pulled away, fixing his mouth to his thigh instead and smiling to himself when Courfeyrac let out an indignant whine.

“Can’t let this end too soon,” Combeferre said.

Courfeyrac let out a huff of laughter. “No, we can’t have that.”

Hitching Courfeyrac’s legs higher, he continued to trail his mouth down, breathing in the musky scent of him, until he reached the tight ring of muscle that was his destination. Courfeyrac jumped and uttered a small gasp at the first careful press of Combeferre’s tongue, clearly not expecting it. A quiet stream of curses poured out of his mouth as Combeferre relentlessly kissed and licked, giving way to a startled cry when Combeferre’s tongue finally breached him.

Courfeyrac’s words slowly devolved into broken moans as Combeferre dipped his tongue in and out of him, his hands coming up to grip the backs of his thighs for better access. With every trembling sigh Combeferre grew more aroused, entranced by the sounds being pulled from Courfeyrac, by the heady taste on his tongue; by Courfeyrac’s presence, itself. He came to the conclusion that he did not need severe hunger to become utterly captivated by Courfeyrac. It felt like more than the stirrings of romance, and more than physical attraction. Combeferre was at a loss as to how to define it; all he knew was it felt good, and _right_.

He pulled away and pressed his fingertip against the slick hole, flicking his eyes up to meet Courfeyrac’s heavy gaze.

“Do you have…?”

It seemed to take Courfeyrac a moment to process his request, but then he murmured a soft ‘oh’ and reached out distractedly with one hand to vaguely paw at the bedside table. Combeferre tried not to look  _too_ smug as he leaned over Courfeyrac to open the top drawer, quickly finding what he needed. Courfeyrac fixed his gaze on the growing bulge in Combeferre’s boxers, licking his lips, and Combeferre dove forward to capture him in a deep kiss. Without looking or breaking away from the kiss, he flicked open the cap to the bottle and coated his fingers in a generous amount of the viscous liquid.

Courfeyrac shuddered again at the press of Combeferre’s fingers against his entrance, spreading his legs wider in welcome. The first finger slid inside easily past the ring of muscle, making Courfeyrac arch his back and sigh into Combeferre’s mouth.

“More,” he whispered, pressing down against Combeferre’s hand encouragingly. Combeferre could only oblige, adding in another digit and watching Courfeyrac’s eyes flutter shut.

With a few thrusts of his fingers, he found the spot that made Courfeyrac throw his head back with a gasp and tighten his grip on Combeferre’s shoulders. Combeferre followed the long line of his neck with wet kisses, careful to keep teeth out despite wanting to leave a bruising bite on the lovely skin.

“More,” Courfeyrac said again, his voice shakier this time, and once more, Combeferre obliged, rhythmically thrusting his fingers against the sensitive spot inside him and watching with rapt attention as Courfeyrac slowly came apart beneath him. Fingernails dragged down his shoulder blades as Courfeyrac heaved hot, sobbing breaths into his neck.

As much as he liked the closeness, the wonderful skin-to-skin contact, Combeferre needed something else. He curled his free hand into Courfeyrac’s hair and gently tugged his head back.

“Let me see,” he said, meeting Courfeyrac’s heavy gaze. “Let me see you.”

Courfeyrac didn’t respond, but his pretty mouth parted as Combeferre’s fingers brushed against his prostate once more, and he kept his eyes open.

“Now,” Courfeyrac said between gasps. “I need you _now_.”

Combeferre’s body very much agreed, he realized, finally noticing his full, aching arousal. He had been too focused on giving Courfeyrac pleasure to think about his own body’s needs, but now he felt as desperate as Courfeyrac looked. Diving in for another searing kiss, Combeferre withdrew his fingers and quickly slicked himself up with lube.

 _Slowly_ , he thought. Slowly.

He pushed forward until just barely breached Courfeyrac’s entrance, arms shaking with effort. Courfeyrac’s mouth went slack against his, nails digging into Combeferre’s back. They parted just enough to lean their foreheads against one another’s, staring raptly into each other’s eyes as Combeferre slowly thrust his hips forward and back, each time going just a fraction deeper.

He paused when he was fully enveloped in tight, perfect heat, both of them struggling to catch their breaths. Courfeyrac’s expression was more open and vulnerable than Combeferre had ever seen it, all the layers he kept himself wrapped in peeled away. Galaxies spilled from his eyes and flooded Combeferre’s vision; he watched shooting stars rain down as he pulled almost completely out and sank back into him in a fluid motion. Courfeyrac whispered his name, and it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.

They fell naturally into a rhythm, as though their bodies had known one another for centuries. It was a slow, steady burn, punctuated by panting breaths and names moaned into mouths. When Courfeyrac came with a strangled cry, raking his nails down Combeferre’s back and clenching around him, Combeferre was only moments behind. He shuddered out a groan and buried his face into Courfeyrac’s neck, just barely keeping himself from collapsing on top of him.

They stayed locked in each other’s embrace for a long moment, neither willing to detach just yet. Courfeyrac’s pulse beat wildly against Combeferre’s cheek, his damp curls brushing his forehead. Time was a warm, hazy thing suspended around them; Combeferre wanted nothing more than to stay in the moment’s perfection forever.

Eventually, their breathing slowed and their sweat dried, and discomfort started to set in. With great reluctance, Combeferre pulled away from Courfeyrac and lay down next to him. Courfeyrac rolled onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow, watching him silently.

Stars still glimmered in his eyes.

Courfeyrac slid his hand up Combeferre’s chest and around his neck, cradling his jaw, and dipped his head down for a long, lazy kiss.

“We should probably shower,” Combeferre murmured against his lips, but sank his fingers into Courfeyrac’s hair and slid an arm around his waist, pulling him closer. He felt Courfeyrac smile.

“Probably,” Courfeyrac echoed.

It took them a long time to get into the shower, and longer still to leave it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your endless patience with me. <3 Reach me on Tumblr at courfalicious and infinite-mirrors.


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